CIHM 

ICIUIH 

Microfiche 

Collection  de 

Scries 

microfiches 

({Monographs) 

(monographies) 

Canadian  Instituta  for  Hiatorical  Microraproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  da  microraproductiona  hiatorlquaa 


1994 


Tflchmcal  and  Biblioflraphk  Nom  /  NotM  tachnMiun  at  biWiofrapliiqum 


Tht  Inttltuta  hat  altat-^tad  to  obttin  tita  batt  erifiiMl 
copy  availabia  for  filminf .  Faatura*  of  thit  copy  wtiicte 
may  ba  WWiotrapbieally  unMiua,  «vliich  may  ahar  any 
of  ttM  imaflM  in  ttia  raproductlon,  or  which  may 
tignificantiy  elianfi  tha  iH«ial  maihod  of  filminfl,  ara 
chacfcad  balow. 


L'Institut  a  microfilmi  la  maillaur  aaamplaira  qu'il 
lui  a  M  pouiMa  da  la  procuraf .  Lat  d*taiii  da  eat 
axamplaira  qui  tont  pawt-4tra  uniquat  du  point  da  tua 
bibliofraphiqua,  qui  pawvant  modif iar  una  imaffa 
raprodwita.  ou  qui  pauvant  aaiqar  una  modification 
clam  la  mithoda  nofmala  da  f  ilmaqa  lont  indiquii 
(i-dasMut. 


HColourad  covan/ 
Couvartura  da  coulaur 


D 
D 


Covart  damagad/ 
Couvtrtura  andommafto 

Covart  rattorad  and/or  laminatai  / 
Couvartura  rattaurte  at/ou  palliculto 


□  Colourad  pafat/ 
Patas  da  coulaur 

□  Paqai  damatad/ 
PagH  andommaiiai 

□  Paflat  rattorad  and/or  iaminatad/ 
Pafas  rattauriat  at/ou  pallicultM 


□  Co»ar  titia  misting/ 
La 


D 


titra  da  couvartura  m^nqua 


Colourad  mapi/ 

Cartas  giographiquat  an  coulaur 


HPaga*  ditcolourad.  ttainad  or  foaad/ 
Pagat  dicoloriat,  tachatias  ou  piquaat 

□  Pagas  datachad/ 
Pagai  d«tach«at 


0 

n 


D 


a 


Colourad  ink  (i.e.  othar  than  blua  or  Mack)/ 
Encra  da  coulaur  (i.a.  autra  qua  Waua  ou  noira) 

Colourad  platai  and/or  illustration*/ 
Planchas  at/ou  illustrations  an  coulaur 

Bound  with  othar  material/ 
Ralie  avac  d'autras  documents 

Tight  binding  may  causa  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serrte  peut  causer  da  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge  interieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenever  pouiMe,  these  have 
been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  aiouties 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsquc  cela  cttit  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  ete  filmtes. 


Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  lupplementaires: 


QShowthrough/ 
Transparence 

□  Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Qualiti  in^le  de  I'impression 

I        I  Continuous  pegination/ 


D 


Pagination  continue 

Includes  index(es)/ 
Comprend  un  (des)  index 

Title  on  header  taken  from:  / 
Le  titre  de  I'en-tlte  provient: 


□  Title  page  of 
Page  de  titre 


issue/ 

de  la  livraison 


□  Caption  of  issue/ 
Titre  de  depart  de  la  livraison 

□  Masthead/ 
Generique  (periodiques)  de  la  livraison 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filme  au  taux  de  reduction  indique  ci-dessous. 


10X 


^4x 


1SX 


20X 


22X 


26X 


XX 


24  X 


28  X 


D 


32  X 


Th«  copy  filmed  h«r«  haa  bMn  riproduc«d  thanka 
tc*  tha  ganaroaity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'axampiaira  film*  fut  raproduH  grica  A  la 
OAnAroait*  da: 

■IMIotMqua  nationala  du  Canada 


Tha  imagaa  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
poaalbia  eonaldaring  tha  condition  and  lagiblllty 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  apaclficationa. 


Original  copiaa  in  printad  papar  covara  ara  fllmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  last  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
•Ion,  or  tha  back  cov^r  whan  approprlata.  All 
othar  original  copiaa  ara  fllmad  baginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
•ion,  and  anding  on  tha  iaat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  impraa^ion. 


Tha  last  racordad  frama  on  aach  microflcha 
•hall  contain  tha  aymbol  -^  (moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  aymbol  Y  (moaning  "END"), 
whichavar  appllaa. 


Laa  Imagaa  aulvantaa  ont  At*  roprodultaa  avao  la 
plus  grand  aoln,  eompta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  l'axampiaira  film*,  at  an 
conformM  avao  laa  eondltlona  du  contrat  da 
fllmaga. 

Laa  axamplalraa  orlglnaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  aat  imprlmaa  aont  film«a  an  commandant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarmlnant  soit  par  la 
darnMra  paga  qui  comporto  urto  ampralnta 
d'impraaalon  ou  d'llluatration.  aolt  par  la  aacond 
plat,  aalon  lo  caa.  Toua  laa  autraa  axamplalraa 
orlglnaux  aont  fllm«a  an  commandant  par  la 
pramlAra  paga  qui  comporto  uno  ampralnta 
d'impraaalon  ou  d'llluatration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darnMra  paga  qui  comporto  una  talla 
ampralnta. 

Un  daa  aymbolaa  aulvanta  apparattra  aur  la 
darnlAra  Imaga  da  chaqua  microflcha,  aalon  lo 
caa:  la  aymbola  -^>  aignlfla  "A  8UIVRE".  la 
aymbolo  ▼  aignlfla  "FIN". 


Mapa,  plataa,  charta,  ate,  may  ba  fllmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratioa.  Thoaa  too  larga  to  bo 
antiraly  includad  In  ona  axpoaura  ara  fllmad 
baginning  In  tha  uppar  laft  hand  corner,  loft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framaa  aa 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrams  illustrata  tha 
mathod: 


Laa  cartaa.  pianchaa.  tableaux,  ate,  pauvant  Aua 
filmia  i  daa  taux  da  rMuction  diffAronta. 
Loraqua  la  document  eat  trap  grand  pour  Atra 
reproduit  en  un  soul  cllch*.  II  eat  film*  A  partir 
da  Tangle  aupArlaur  geuche.  do  gauche  A  drolte. 
et  do  heut  en  bea.  en  prenant  la  nombre 
d'images  nOcesseira.  Lee  diegrammee  sulvanu 
llluatrant  la  mAthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

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MIOOCOfY   RMOWTION  TBT  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


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^    /^PPLiED  IN/HGE    li 


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1653  East   Main   Street 

Rochetler,   New  York        U609       USA 

(716)   482  -  0300  -  Phone 

(716)   288  -  5989  -  Fa» 


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I 

i 


THE  GLORY 
OF  THE  TRENCHES 


m 
W 


CARRY  ON: 
LtTTus  IN  WAanuB 

SLAVES  OF  FREEDOM 
THE  RAFT 

THE     GARDEN      WITHOUT 
WALLS 

THE  SEVENTH  QIRISTMAS 

THE  UNKNOWN  COUNTRY 

THE  ROAD  TO  AVALON 

FLORENCE  ON  A  CERTAIN 
NIGHT 

THE  WORKER  AND  OTHER 
POEMS 


Photograph   by   II', liters.   \'c:i-jrl:.   N.J. 


LIKLTEXANT  COXIXCSBY   DAWSON 

CANADIAN      KIKI.U     ARTII.I.EKY 


i 

I 


THE  GLORY 
OF  THE  TRENCHES 

AN  INTERPRETATION 


BY 


CONINGSBY  DAWSON 

Author  of 
"Carry  On:  Letters  in  Wartime,"  etc. 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

BY  HIS  FATHER,  W.  J.  DAWSON 


IS 


"Tht  glory  it  all  in  the  soub  of  the  men 
—it's  nothing txtenal."— From  *'Carry  On" 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN   LANE   COMPANY 

LONDON:  JOHN    LANE,  THE   BODLEY    HEAD 
TORONTO:    S.    B.    GUNDY     .'.     .-.     MCMXVIII 


20138 


Coprrlght.  1917,  1918 

■»  UfTMHATIONAl.  MagaZINB  COMTAirV 

Copyright,  1918 
By  John  Lane  Company 


TO  YOU  AT  HOME 

Each  night  we  panted  till  the  runners  came. 

Bearing  your  letters  through  the  battle-smoke. 
Their  path  lay  up  Death  Valley  spouting  Ume, 

Across  the  ridge  where  the  Hun's  anger  spoke 
In  bursting  shells  and  cataracts  of  pain; 

Then  down  the  road  where  no  one  goes  by  day. 
And  so  into  the  tortured,  pockmarked  plain 

Where  dead  men  clasp  their  wounds  and  point  the  way. 
Here  gas  lurks  treacherously  and  the  wire 

Of  old  defences  tangles  up  the  feet; 
Faces  and  hands  strain  upward  through  the  mire. 

Speaking  the  anguish  of  the  Hun's  retreat. 
Sometimes  no  letters  came;  the  evening  hate 

Dragged  on  till  dawn.    The  ridge  in  flying  spray 
Uf  hisstng  shrapnel  told  the  runner^  fate; 

We  knew  we  should  not  hear  from  you' that  day~ 
From  you.  who  from  the  trenches  of  the  mind 

Hurl  back  despair,  smUing  voith  sobbing  breath, 
Wrttxng  your  souls  on  paper  to  be  kind. 

That  you  for  us  may  take  the  sting  from  Death. 


CONTENTS 

To  You  AT  Home.    (Poem) '*" 

How  This  Book  Was  Written    ....      9 

In  Hospitau    (Poem)        ig 

\  The  Road  to  Blighty iq 

The  Lads  Away.     (Poem) 53 

The  Growing  op  the  Vision 53 

The  Glory  of  the  Trenches.    (Poem)      .  104 
God  as  We  See  Him    ., 105 


lilf 


'f 


HOW  THIS  BOOK  WAS  WRITTEN 


In  my  book,  The  Father  of  a  Soldier,  I  have 
already  stated  the  conditions  under  which  this 
book  of  my  son's  was  produced. 

He  was  wounded  in  the  end  of  June,  1917,  in 
the  fierce  struggle  before  Lens.    He  was  at  oiice 
removed  to  a  base-hospital,  and  later  on  to  a 
military  hospital  in  London.    There  was  grave 
danger  of  amputation  of  the  right  arm,  but  this 
was  happily  avoided    As  soon  as  he  could  use 
his  hand  he  was  commandeered  by  the  Lord  High 
Commissioner  of  Canada  to  write  an  important 
paper,   detailing  the  history  of   the  Canadian 
forces  in  France  and  Flanders.    This  task  kept 
him  busy  until  the  end  of  August,  when  he  ob- 
tamed  a  leave  of  two  months  to  come  home.     He 
arrived  in  New  York  in  September,  and  returned 
again  to  London  in  the  end  of  October. 

The  plan  of  the  book  grew  out  of  his  conversa- 
tions with  us  and  the  three  public  addresses  which 
he  made.  The  idea  had  already  been  suggested 
to  him  by  his  London  publisher,  Mr.  John  Une. 
He  had  written  a  few  hundred  words,  but  had  no 

9 


11 


'O  INTRODUCTION 

veiy  keen  sense  of  the  value  of  the  experience, 
he  had  been  invited  to  relate.  He  had  Tot  even 
read  h.s  own  published  letters  in  Carry  On.     Z 

reached  h>m  ,n  the  trenches,  but  they  n.ade  him 
homesick,  and  he  was  also  afraid  that  his  o«" 
est.mate  of  their  value  might  not  coincide  w  h 
ours   or  w.th  the  verdict  which  the  public  has 
smce  passed  upon  them.    He  regarded  his  own 
experiences,  which  we  found  so  thrilling,   n, I" 
same  sp.ru  of  modest  depreciation.     They  w  re 
.he  commonplaces  of  the  life  which  he  had  led 
and  he  was  sensitive  lest  they  should  be  regarded 

L^rr'^:'^  ""r"'-  ^°  °"'  -»» -"o^^on 

1,™,,  t  f         ?  *  P*°P'«  assembled  an 

hour  before  the  advertised  time,  they  stormed 
the  buddmg  as  soon  as  the  doors  were  open  and 
when  every  inch  of  room  was  packed  they  found 
a  way  m  by  the  windows  and  a  fire-escape  Thi 
puWic  appredatior.  ot  his  message  indicated  a 
value  m  ,t  wh.ch  he  had  not  suspected,  and  led 
h.m  to  recognise  that  what  he  had  to  say  was 

Thi   '  ;T"=  •'"'"  "  ^"^"^=  utterance  on  a 
pubhc  platform.    He  at  once  took  up  the  task 

of  wrumg  this  bock,  with  a  genuine  and  delighted 
Ship.    He  had  but  a  month  to  devote  to  it,  but  by 


IX 


INTRODUCTION 
dint  of  daily  diligence,  amid  many  interruptions 
of  a  social  nature,  he  finished  his  task  before  he 
left.  The  concluding  lines  were  actually  written 
on  the  last  night  before  he  sailed  for  England. 

We  discussed  several  titles  for  the  book     The 
^fwion  of  Heroism  was  the  title  suggested  by 
Mr.  John  Une.  but  this  appeared  too  didactfc  and 
restrictive.     I  suggested  Souls  in  Kliaki,  but  this 
admirable  title  had  already  been  appropriated. 
Lastly,  we  decided  on  The  Glory  of  the  Trenches 
as  the  most  expressive  of  his  aim.     He  felt  that 
a  great  deal  too  much  had  been  said  about  the 
squalor,  filth,  discomfort  and  suffering  of  the 
trenches.     He  pointed  out  that  a  very  popular 
war-book  which  we  were  then  reading  had  six 
paragraphs  in  the  first  sixty  pages  which  de- 
scribed in  unpleasant  detail  the  verminous  condi- 
tion of  the  men,  as  if  this  were  the  chief  thing  to 
be  remarked  concerning  them.     He  held  that  it 
was  a  mistake  for  a  writer  to  lay  too  much  stress 
on  the  horrors  of  war.     The  effect  was  bad  physi- 
ologically —  it  frightened  the  parents  of  soldiers  • 
It  was  equally  bad  for  the  enlisted  man  himself' 
for  it  created  a  false  impression  in  his  mind.' 
We  all  knew  that  war  was  horrible,  but  as  a  rule 
the  soldier  thought  little  of  this  feature  in  his  lot 
It  bulked  large  to  the  civilian  who  resented  incon- 
venience  and  discomfort,  because  he  had  only 


I 


la  INTRODUCTION 

known  their  opposites;   buf   the  soldier's  real 
thoughts  were  concerned  with  other  things.    He 
was  engaged  in  spiritual  acts.    He  was  accom- 
phshing  spiritual  purposes  as  truly  as  the  martyr 
of  faith  and  religion.     He  was  moved  by  spir- 
itual  impulses,  the  evocation  of  duty,  the  loyal 
dependence  of  comradeship,  the  spirit  of  sacrifice, 
the  complete  surrender  of  the  body  to  the  will 
of  the  soul.     This  was  the  side  of  war  which  men 
needed  most  to  recognise.    They  needed  it  not 
only  because  it  was  the  true  side,  but  because 
nothing  else  could  kindle  and  sustain  the  enduring 
flame  of  herojsm  in  men's  hearts. 

While  some  erred  in  exhibiting  nothing  but  the 
brutalities  of  war,  others  erred  by  sentimentalis- 
mg  war.  He  admitted  that  it  was  perfectly  pos- 
sible  to  paint  a  portrait  of  a  soldier  with  the 
aureole  of  a  saint,  but  it  would  not  be  a  repre- 
sentative portrait.  It  would  be  eclectic,  the  result 
of  selection  elimination.  It  would  be  as  unlike 
the  common  average  as  Rupert  Brooke,  with  his 
poet's  face  and  poet's  heart,  was  unlike  the  ordi- 
nary naval  officers  with  whom  he  sailed  to  the 
iEgean. 

The  ordinary  soldier  is  an  intensely  human 
creature,  with  an  "  endearing  blend  of  faults  and 
virtues."  The  romantic  method  of  portraying 
him  not  only  misrepresented  him,  but  its  result  is 


INTRODUCTION  ,3 

far  less  Impressive  than  a  portrait  painted  in  the 
firm  lines  of  reality.  There  is  an  austere  gran- 
deur in  the  reality  of  what  he  is  and  docs  which 
needs  no  fine  gilding  from  the  scntimenulist. 
To  depict  him  as  a  Sir  Galahad  in  holy  armour 
IS  as  serious  an  offence  as  to  exhibit  him  as  a 
Caliban  of  marred  clay ;  each  method  fails  of 
truth,  and  all  that  the  soldier  needs  to  be  known 
about  him,  that  men  should  honour  him.  is  the 
truth. 

What  my  son  aimed  at  in  writing  this  br  jk  was 
to  tell  the  truth  about  the  men  who  were  .is  com- 
rades, in  so  far  as  it  was  given  him  .0  see  it. 
He  was  in  haste  to  write  while  the  impression 
was  fresh  in  his  mind,  for  he  knew  how  soon  the 
fine  edge  of  these  impressions  grew  dull  as  they 
receded  from  the  immediate  area  of  vision.     "If 
I  wait  till  the  war  is  over.  I  shan't  be  able  to 
write  of  it  at  all,"  he  said.     "  You've  noticed  that 
old  soldiers  are  very  often  silent  men.    They've 
had  their  crowded  hours  of  glorious  life,  but  they 
rarely  tell  you  much  about  them.     I  remember 
you  used  to  tell  me  that  you  once  knew  a  man  who 
sailed  with  Najloleon  to  St.  Helena,  but  all  he 
could  tell  you  was  that  Napoleon  had  a  fine  leg 
and  wore  white  silk  stockings.     If  he'd  written 
down  his  impressions  of  Napoleon  day  by  day  as 
he  watched  him  walking  the  deck  of  the  Bellero^ 


M 


INTRODUCTION 


phfin,  hc'tl  have  told  yoii  a  great  deal  more  about 
him  than  that  he  wore  white  silk  •locking!.  U 
I  wait  till  the  war  is  over  before  I  write  about  It, 
it'i  very  likely  I  shall  recollect  only  trivial  details, 
and  the  big  heroic  spirit  of  the  thing  will  escape 
me.  There's  only  one  way  of  recording  an  ini- 
pression  — catch  it  while  it's  fresh,  vivid,  vital; 
shoot  it  on  the  wing.  If  you  wait  too  long  it  will 
vanish."  It  was  because  he  felt  in  this  way  tliat 
he  wrote  in  red-hot  haste,  sacrificing  his  brief 
leave  to  the  task,  and  concentrating  all  his  mind 
upon  it 

There  was  one  impression  that  he  was  particu« 
larly  anxious  to  record,— his  sense  of  the  spir- 
itual  processes  which  worked  behind  the  grim 
ofencc  of  war,  the  new  birth  of  rch'gious  ideas, 
which  was  one  of  itji  most  wonderful  results. 
He  had  both  witnessed  and  shared  this  renas- 
cence.    It  was  too  indefinite,  too  immature  to  be 
chronicled  with  scientific  accuracy,  but  it  was 
authentic  aiiJ  indubitable.     It  was  atmospheric, 
a  new  air  which  men  breathed,  producing  new  en- 
ergies and  forms  of  thought.     Men  were  redis- 
covering themselves,  their  own  forgotten  nc'.'M- 
ties,   the   latent  nobilities   in  all  men.     Bound 
together  in  the  daily  obedience  of  self-surrender, 
urged  by  the  conditions  of  their  task  to  regard 
duty  as  inexorable,  confronted  by  the  pitiless  de- 


INTRODUCTION  ,5 

•tniction  of  the  IxKly.  they  were  forced  into  a 
new  recognition  of  the  spiritual  value*  of  life 
In  the  common  conventional  u*c  of  the  term  ihc^c 
men  were  not  religious.     There  was  much   in 
their  speech  and  in  their  conduct  which  would 
outrage  the  standards  of  a  narrow  pietism.     Tra- 
ditional  creeds  and   forms  o/   faith  had  scant 
authority  for  them.     Dut  they  had  made  their 
own  a  surer  faith  tl.an  lives  in  creeds.     It  was 
expressed  not  in  words  but  acts.     They  had  freed 
their  souls  from  the  tyrannies  of  time  and  the 
fear  of  death.     They  had  accomplished  indeed 
that  very  emancipation  of  the  sou,    vhich  is  the 
essential  evangel  of  all  religions,  which  aP  rcli- 
gions  urge  on  men.  but  which  few  men  really 
achieve,  however  earnestly  tlicy  profess  the  forms 
of  pious  faith. 

This  was  the  true  Glory  of  the  Trenches. 
They  were  the  Calvaries  of  a  new  redemption 
being  wrought  out  for  men  by  soiled  unconscious 
Chnsts.  And,  as  from  that  ancient  Calvary, 
with  all  its  agony  of  shame,  torture  and  derelic- 
tion, there  flowed  a  flood  of  light  which  made  a 
new  dawn  for  the  world;  so  from  these  obscure 
cnicifixions  there  would  come  to  men  a  new  reve- 
lation of  the  splendour  of  the  human  soul,  the 
true  divinity  that  dwells  in  man,  the  God  made 
manifest  iii  the  flesh  by  acts  of  valour,  heroism, 


'riMi 


tl 


i6 


INTRODUCTION 


I 


and  self-sacrifice  which  transcend  the  instincts 
and  promptings  of  the  flesh,  and  bear  witness  to 
the  indestructible  life  of  the  spirit. 

It  is  to  express  these  thoughts  and  convictions 
that  this  book  was  written.     It  is  a  record  of 
things  deeply  felt,  seen  and  experienced  —  this, 
first  of  all  and  chiefly.     The  lesson  of  what  is 
recorded  is  incidental  and  '"mplicit.     It  is  left  to 
the  discovery  of  the  reader,  and  yet  is  so  plainly 
indicated  that  he  cannot  fail  to  discover  it.     We 
shall  all  see  this  war  quite  wrongly,  and  shall  in- 
terpret it  by  imperfect  and  base  equivalents,  if 
we  see  it  only  as  a  human  struggle  for  human 
ends.     We  shall  err  yet  more  miserably  if  all  our 
thoughts  and  sensations  about  it  are  drawn  from 
its  physical  horror,  "the  deformations  of  our 
common  manhood  "  on  the  battlefield,  the  hope- 
less waste  and  havoc  of  it  all.     We  shall  only 
view  it  in  its  real  perspective  when  we  recognise 
the  spiritual  Impulses  which  direct  it,  and  the 
strange  spiritual  efficacy  that  is  in  it  to  burn  out 
the  deep-fibred  cancer  of  doubt  and  decadence 
which  has  long  threatened  civilisation  with  a  slow 
corrupt    death.     Seventy-five    years    ago    Mrs. 
Browning,  writing  on  The  Greek  Christian  Poets, 
used  a  striking  sentence  to  which  the  condition 
of  human  thought  to-day  lends  a  new  emphasis. 
"We  want,"  she  said,  "the  touch  of  Christ's 


INTRODUCTION  17 

hajid  upon  our  literature,  as  it  touched  other  dead 
things  — we  want  the  sense  of  the  saturation  of 
Christ's  blood  upon  the  souls  of  our  poets  that  it 
may  cry  through  them  in  answer  to  the  ceaseless 
wail  of  the  Sphinx  of  our  humanity,  expounding 
agony  into  renovation.  Something  of  this  has 
been  perceived  in  art  when  its  glory  was  at  the 
fullest."  It  is  this  glory  of  divine  sacrifice  which 
is  the  Glory  of  the  Trenches.  It  is  because  the 
writer  recognises  this  that  he  is  able  to  walk  un- 
dismayed among  things  terrible  and  dismaying, 
and  to  expound  agony  into  renovation. 

W.  J.  Dawson. 
February,  1918. 


M"' 


ii 


li  I 


\\ 


IN  HOSPITAL 

Hushed  and  happy  whiteness. 

Miles  on  miles  of  cols. 
The  glad  contented  brightness 

Where  sunlight  falls  in  spots. 

Sisters  swift  and  saintly 

Seem  to  tread  on  grass; 
Like  /lowers  stirring  faintly, 

Heads  turn  to  watch  them  pass. 

Beauty,  blood,  and  sorrow. 

Blending  in  a  trance  — 
Eternity's  to-morrow 

In  this  half-way  house  of  France. 

Sounds  of  whispered  talking. 
Laboured  indravm  breath; 

Then  like  a  young  girl  walking 
The  dear  familiar  Death. 


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'I 
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■  n 
3 


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^•>,3p.  . -^_  .  ^j-«r  ,« 


I 


THE 
GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 


THE  Rr^AD  TO  BLIGHTY 

I  am  in  hospital  in  London,  lying  between 
clean  white  sheets  and  feeling,  for  the  first  time 
m  months,  clean  all  over.    At  the  end  of  the 
ward  there  is  a  swinging  door;  if  I  listen  in- 
tently in  the  intervals  when  the  gramophone  isn't 
playing,  I  can  hear  the  sound  of  bath-water  run- 
ning—running in  a  reckless  kind  of  fashion  as 
if  It  didn't  care  how  much  was  wasted.     To  me 
so  recently  out  of  the  fighting  and  so  short  a  time 
m  Bhghty,  it  seems  the  finest  music  in  the  world. 
For  the  sheer  luxury  of  the  contrast  I  close  my 
eyes  against  the  July  sunlight  and  imagine  myself 
back  in  one  of  those  narrow  dug-outs  where  it 
isn't  the  thing  to  undress  because  the  row  may 
start  at  any  minute. 

Out  there  in  France  we  used  to  tell  one  another 
fairy-tales  of  how  we  would  spend  the  first  year 

19 


;) 


I 


Hi 


^T«W.-— p^*'f— 


nn^^HV'      '^^^m    ^^v^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ku^Hn   ^^vi 


i! 


l! 


20    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
oflife  when  war  was  ended.    One  man  had  ^ 
baby  whom  he'd  never  seen;  another  a  girl  whom 
he  was  anxious  to  marry.    My  dream  was  more 
prosaic,  but  no  less  ecstatic-  it  began  and  ended 
with  a  large  white  bed  and  a  large  white  bath. 
For  the  first  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  morn- 
ings after  peace  had  been  declared  I  was  to  be 
wakened  by  the  sound  of  my  bath  being  filled  • 
water  was  to  be  so  plentiful  that  I  could  tumble 
off  to  sleep  again  without  even  troubling  to  turn 
off  the  tap.     In  France  one  has  to  go  dirty  so 
often  that  the  dream  of  being  always  clean  seems 
as  unreahsable  as  romance.     Our  drinking-water 
IS  frequently  brought  up  to  us  at  the  risk  of  men's 
hves.  carried  through  the  mud  in  petrol-cans 
strapped  on  to  packhorses.     To  use  it  carelessly 

would  be  like  washing  in  men's  blood  • 

And  here,  most  marvellously,  with  my  dream 
come  true.  I  lie  in  the  whitest  of  white  beds. 
The  sunlight  filters  through  trees  outside  the  win- 
dow and  weaves  patterns  on  the  floor.  Most 
wonderful  of  all  is  the  sound  of  the  water  so 
luxuriously  running.  Some  one  hops  out  of  bed 
and  rc-starts  the  gramophone.  The  music  of 
the  bath-room  tap  is  lost. 

Up  -nd  down  the  ward,  with  swift  precision 
nurses  move  softly.  They  have  the  unanxious 
eyes  of  those  whose  days  are  mapped  out  with 


■^W 


tf-i1 


l»l^  -« -J^'^*-. J 


I       i 


I 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     21 
duties.    They  rarely  notice  us  as  individuals. 
They  ask  no  questions,  show  no  curiosity.     Their 
deeds  of  persistent  kindness  are  all  performed  im- 
personally.    It's  the  same  with  the  doctors.    This 
is  a  military  hospital  where  discipline  is  firmly 
enforced;  any  natural  recognition  of  common 
fineness  is  discouraged.     These  women  who  have 
pledged  themselves  to  live  among  suffering,  never 
allow  themselves  for  a  moment  to  guess  what  the 
sight  of  them  means  to  us  chaps  in  the  cots. 
Perhaps  that  also  is  a  part  of  their  sacrifice.     But 
we  follow  them  with  our  eyes,  and  we  wish  that 
they  .^juld  allow  themselves  to  guess.     For  so 
many  months  we  have  not  seen  a  woman;  there 
have  been  so  many  hours  when  we  expected  never 
again  to  see  a  woman.     We're  La2aruses  ex- 
humed and  restored  to  normal  ways  of  life  by 
the  fluke  of  having  collected  a  bit  of  shrapnel  — 
we  haven't  yet  got  used  to  normal  ways.    The 
mere  rustle  of  a  woman's  skirt  fills  us  with  unrea- 
sonable delight  and  makes  the  eyes  smart  with 
memories  of  old  longings.     Those  childish  long- 
mgs  of  the  trenches!    No  one  can  understand 
them  who  has  not  been  there,  where  all  personal 
aims  are  a  wash-out  and  the  courage  to  endure 
remains  one's  sole  possession. 

The  sisters  at  the  Casualty  Clearing  Station  — 
they  understood.    The  Casualty  Gearing  Station 


'  j^  -ic-Ti: 


I! 


ifi  ! 


M    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
is  the  first  hospital  behind  the  hnc  to  which  the 
wounded  are  brought  down  straight  from  the 
Dressing-Stations.    All  day  a.id  all  night  ambu- 
ances  come  lurching  along  shell-tom  roads  to 
their  doors.      The  men  on  the  stretchers  are  still 
m  their  bloody  tunics,  rain-soaked.  pain-silent, 
splashed  with  the  corruption  of  fighting  -  their 
bodies  so  obviously  smashed  and  their  spirits  so 
obviously  unbroken.     The  nurses  at  the  Casualty 
Clearmg  Station  can  scarcely  help  but  under- 
stand.     They  can  afford  to  be  feminine  to  men 
who  are  so  weak.     Moreove  ,   they  are   near 
enough  the  Front  to  share  in  the  sublime  exalta- 
tion of  those  who  march  out  to  die.     They  know 
when  a  big  offensive  is  expected,  and  prepare  for 
It.     They  are  warned  the  moment  it  has  com- 
menced  by  the  distant  thunder  of   the   guns 
Then  comes  the  ceaseless  stream  of  lorries  and 
ambulances  bringing  that  which  has  been  broken 
so  quickly  to  them  to  be  patched  up  in  months. 
They  work  day  and  night  with  a  forgetfulness  of 
self  which  equals  the  devotion  of  the  soldiers  they 
are  tending.    Despite  their  orderliness  they  seem 
almost  fanatical  in  their  desire  to  spend  them- 
selves.    They  are  always  doing,  but  they  can 
never  do  enough.     It's  the  same  with  the  sur- 
geons.    I  know  of  one  who  during  a  great  attack 
operated  for  forty-eight  hours  on  end  and  finally 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  23 

went  to  sleep  where  he  stood  from  utter  weari- 
ness. The  picture  that  forms  in  my  mind  of 
these  women  is  absurd,  Arthurian  and  exact;  I 
sec  them  as  great  ladies,  mediaeval  in  their  saint- 
liness,  sharing  the  pollution  of  the  battle  with 
their  champions. 

Lying  here  with  nothing  to  worry  about  in  the 
green  serenity  of  an  English  summer,  I  realize  , 
that  no  man  can  grasp  the  splendour  of  this  war/ 
until  he  has  made  the  trip  to  Blighty  on  J 
stretcher.     What  I  mean  is  this:  so  long  as  a 
fighting  man  keeps  well,  his  experience  of  the 
war  consists  of  muddy  roads  leading  up  through 
a  desolated  country  to  holes  in  the  ground,  in 
which  he  spends  most  of  his  time  watching  other 
boles  in  the  ground,  which  people  tell  him  are  the 
Hun  front-line.    This  experience  is  punctuated 
by  periods  during  which  the  earth  shoots  up  about 
him  like  com  popping  in  a  pan,  and  he  experiences 
the  insanest  fear,  if  he's  made  that  way,  or  the 
most  satisfying  kind  of  joy.    About  once  a  year 
something  happens  which,  when  it's  over,  he 
scarcely  believes  has  happened :  he's  told  that  he 
can  run  away  to  England  and  pretend  that  there 
isn't  any  war  on  for  ten  days.     For  those  ten 
days,  so  far  as  he's  concerned,  hostilities  are  sus- 
pended.    He  rides  post-haste  through  ravaged 
villages  to  the  point  from  which  the  train  starts. 


n 


H 

if 


!     i 


!,, 


J  ;i 


j  i ; 


11   M 


u 


!  i 


24    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
Up  to  the  very  last  moment  until  the  engine  pulU 
out,  he  8  quite  panicky  lest  some  one  shall  come 
and  snatch  his  warrant  from  him.  telling  him 
that  leave  has  been  cancelled.    He  makes  his 
journey  ,n  a  carriage  in  which  all  the  windows 
are  smashed.     Probably  it  either  snows  or  rains. 
Durmg  the  night  while  he  stamps  his  feet  to 
keep  warm,  he  remembers  that  in  his  hurry  to 
escape  he's  left  all  his  Hun  souvenirs  behind. 
Durmg  his  time  in  London  he  visits  his  tailor  at 
least  twice  a  day.  buys  a  vast  amount  of  unnec 
essary  kit.  sleeps  late,  does  most  of  his  resting 
m  taxi^abs,  eats  innumerable  meals  at  restau- 
rants, laughs  at  a  great  many  plays  in  which  life 
at  the  Front  is  depicted  as  a  joke.    He  feels 
dazed  and  half  suspects  that  he  isn't  in  London 
at  all   but  only  dreaming  in  his  dugK)ut.     Some 
days  later  he  does  actually  wake  up  in  his  dug- 
out ;  the  only  proof  he  has  that  he's  been  on  leave 
IS  that  he  can't  pay  his  mess-bill  and  is  minus  a 
hundred  pounds.    Until  a  man  is  wounded  he 
only  sees  the  war  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
front-Imc  and  consequently,  as  I  say.  misses  half 
Its  splendour,  for  he  is  ignorant  of  the  greatness 
of  the  heart  that  beats  behind  him  all  along  the 
lines  of  communication.     Here  in  brief  is  how 
I  found  this  out. 

The  dressing-station  to  which  I  went  was  un- 


mf^ 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  35 

demeath  a  ruined  house,  under  full  observation 
of  the  Hun  and  in  an  area  which  was  heavily 
•helled.    On  account  of  the  shelling  and  the  fact 
that  any  movement  about  the  place  would  attract 
attention,  the  wounded  were  only  carried  out  by 
night.     Moreover,  to  get  back  from  the  dressing- 
station  to  the  collecting  point  in  rear  of  the  lines, 
the  ambulances  had  to  traverse  a  white  road  over 
a  ridge  full  in  view  of  the  enemy.    The  Huns 
kept  guns  trained  on  this  road  and  opened  fire 
at  the  least  sign  of  traffic.    When  I  presented 
myself  I  didn't  think  that  there  was  anything 
seriously  the  matter;  my  arm  had  swelled  and 
was  painful  from  a  wound  of  three  days'  stand- 
ing.    The  doctor,  however,  recognised  that  septic 
poisoning  had  set  in  and  that  to  save  the  arm  an 
operation  was  necessary  without  loss  of  time. 
He  called  a  sergeant  and  sent  him  out  to  consult 
with  an  ambulance-driver.     "  This  officer  ought 
to  go  out  at  once.    Are  you  willing  to  take  a 
chance?"  asked  the  sergeant.    The  ambulance- 
driver  took  a  look  at  the  chalk  road  gleaming 
white  in  the  sun  where  it  climbed  the  ridge. 
"  Sure,  Mike,"  he  said,  and  ran  off  to  crank  his 
engine  and  back  his  car  out  of  its  place  of  con- 
cealment.    "  Sure,  Mike,"—  that  was  all.     He'd 
have   5aid  the  same  if  he'd  been  asked  whether 
he'd  care  to  take  a  chance  at  Hell. 


S6    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCirES 
I  have  three  vivid  memories  of  that  drive     The 

Frankly  I  duln't  wan.  ,o  go  out;  few  men  do 
when  It  comes  to  the  point.  The  Front  has  its 
own  pecnhar  exhilaration,  like  big  Ba"ic-h„nting. 
.hscover.ng  .he  Korth  Pole,  or  anything  tha.",; 
danger.,,,,:  and  it  has  its  own  peculiar  re»ard- 
tlie  peace  of  mind  that  comes  of  d.,inB  something 
lK);ond  .  ,,pu.e  nnselfish  an<l  superl.n.ivelv  wor.h 
;vh,le.     Us  odd.  b,„  i.-s  .rue  that  in  .hi  front- 

rr  w-  '  ""■."  "!«"«"«»  P*""  of  mind  for 
the  first  time  and  grow,  a  little  afraid  of  a  return 
to  normal  ways  of  life.     Afy  second  memory  is 
of  the  wistful  face,  of  the  chap,  whom  we  passed 
along  the  road.     At  the  unaccustomed  sound  of 
a  car  travelling  i„  broad  .layligh.  the  Tommies 
poked  .he.r  head,  out  of  hiding-places  like  rab- 
h>.s.    Such  d.rty  Tommies  I    How  could  .hey 
be  otherw.se  living  forev..r  on  old  battlefield,? 
If   they   were   given   time    for   reflection   they 
wouldnt  want  .o  go  out;  they'd  choose  to  ,tay 
w.th  the  game  till  the  war  was  ended.     Hut  we 
caught  them  unaware,  and  as  .hey  gazed  after 
»s  down  .he  firs.  par.  of  .he  long  .rail  tha.  lead, 
back  from  .he  trenches  to  Blighty,  .here  was  hun- 
Rer   m    the.r   eyes.     My    .bird    memory    is   of 
Kindness. 

You  wouldn't  think  that  men  would  go  to  war 


i^?'v»^>'2*^'^  ^' 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     27 
to  learn  how  to  be  kind  —  but  they  do.     There's 
no  kinder  creature  in  the  whole  wide  world  than 
the  average  Tommy.     He  makes  a  friend  of  any 
stray  animal  he  can  find.    He  shares  his  last 
franc  with  a  chap  who  isn't  his  pal.     He  risks 
his  life  quite  Inconsequently  to  rescue  any  one 
who's  wounded.     When  he's  gone  o'cr  the  top 
with  bomb  and  bayonet  for  the  express  purpose 
of  ••  doing  in  "  the  Hun,  he  makes  a  comrade  of 
the  Fritzie  he  captures.     You'll  sec  him  coming 
down  the  battered  trenches  with  some  scared  lad 
of  a  German  at  his  side.     He's  gabbling  away 
making  throat-noises  and  signs,  smiling  and  doing 
his  inarticulate  best  to  be  intelligible.    He  pats  the 
Hun  on  the  liack,  hands  him  chocolate  and  ciga- 
rettes, exchanges  souvenirs  and  shares  with  him 
his  last  luxury.     \i  any  one  interferes  with  his 
Fritzie  he's  willing  to  fight.     When  they  come 
to  the  cage  where  the  prisoner  has  to  be  handed 
over,  the  farewells  of  these  companions  whose 
acquaintance  has  been  made  at  the  bayonet-point 
are  often  as  absurd  as  they  are  affecting.     I  sup- 
pose one  only  learns  the  value  of  kindness  when 
he  feels  the  need  of  it  himself.    The  men  out 
there  have  said  "  Good-bye  "  to  everything  they 
loved,  but  they've  got  to  love  some  one  —  so  they 
give  their  aflTections  to  captured  Fritzies,  stray 
dogs,  fellows  who've  collected  a  piece  of  a  shell 


i  'I 


m 


m 


i 


I 


a8    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
--  In  fact  to  tny  one  who's  a  little  worse  off  than 
theni*e  vet.    My  ambulanceKlnver  was  like  that 

Th        :'!"'''  ^•*'*"    "^  wa.  like  It  during 
the  entu-e  drive.    When  he  came  to  the  white 
road  which  climb,  the  ridge  with  all  the  enemy 
country  staring  at  it.  it  would  have  been  excusable 
in  him  to  have  hurried.    The  Hun  barrage  might 
descend  at  any  minute.    All  the  way.  in  the 
ditches  on  either  side,  dead  pack  animals  lay  in 
the   dug-outs    there   were   other   unseen   dead 
making  the  air  foul.    But  he  drove  slowly  and 
gently,  skirting  the  shell-holes  with  diligent  care 
io  as  to  spare  us  every  unnecessary  jolting.    I 
don  t  know  his  name,  shouldn't  recognise  his 
face,  but  I  shall  always  remember  the  almost 
womanly  tenderness  of  his  dri  ing. 

After  two  changes  into  other  ambulances  at 
different  distributing  points.  I  arrived  about  nine 
on  a  summer's  evening  at  the  Casualty  Gearing 
Station.  In  something  less  than  an  hour  I  was 
undressed  and  on  the  operating  table. 

You  might  suppose  that  when  for  three  in- 
terminable years  such  a  stream  of  tragedy  has 
flowed  through  a  hospital,  it  would  be  easy  for 
surgeons  nnd  nurses  to  treat  mutilation  and  death 
perfunctorily.  They  don't.  They  show  no  emo- 
tion.   They  are  even  cheerful ;  but  their  strained 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRE.VCHES    39 

lfK«  fell  the  ..ory  uul  their  lund.  h.v«  •>.  im- 
mense  compusion. 

Two  facet  especially  loom  out.    I  car  alway. 
•ee  them  by  lamHight.  when  the  reM  of  the  ward 
"hushed  and  rf.rouded.  .tooping  over  «>me  .ilent 
M-    One  face  1.  that  of  the  Colonel  of  the  ho^ 
P'WI.  grey,  concerned,  pitiful.  ,tem.    Hit  eye* 
««m  to  have  photographed  all  the  .uffering  which 
in  three  years  they  have  witnessed.    He's  a  tall 
man  b„,  he  move,  softly.    Over  his  uniform  he 
wear,  a  long  white  operating  smock -he  never 
«eni,  to  remove  it.    And  he  never  seem,  to  .l«;p. 
for  he  come,  wandering  through  his  Gethsemane 

li^r        '^t,  "'■^'"  •"  •*"<•  °^*'  'he  more 
Mnous  cases.    He  «em,  haunted  by  a  vision  of 

he  w.ve,  mothers,  sweethearts,  whose  happiness 
k  Ji  '  •'"'"''  °^  ■''"'  "'  "  Christ  in 

The  o«,..r  face  i,  of  a  giil_a  sister  !  ought 
to  call  her.  She',  the  nearest  approach  to  a 
sculptured  Greek  goddess  I've  «en  in  a  livlg 
woman.  She's  very  ull,  very  pale  and  golden 
with  wtde  brow,  and  big  grey  eyes  like  Trilby. 
I  wonder  what  she  did  before  she  went  to  war- 
for  she  s  gone  to  war  just  «  truly  as  any  «>ldier. 
I  m  sure  m  the  peaceful  year,  she  must  have 
spent  a  lot  of  time  in  being  lov^d.    Perhap,  her 


m 


'  •  '■"  1 


'.>  r 


r 


I 


30  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

man  was  killed  out  here.  Now  she's  ivory- 
white  with  over-service  and  spends  all  her  days 
in  loving.  Her  eyes  have  the  old  frank,  innocent 
look,  but  they're  ringed  with  being  weary.  Only 
her  lips  hold  a  touch  of  colour ;  they  have  a  child- 
ish trick  of  trembling  when  any  one's  wound  is 
hurting  too  much.  She's  the  first  touch  of  home 
that  the  stretcher-cases  see  when  they've  said 
good-bye  to  the  trenches.  She  moves  down  the 
ward;  eyes  follow  her.  When  she  is  absent, 
though  others  take  her  place,  she  leaves  a  lone- 
liness. If  >he  meant  much  to  men  in  days  gone 
by,  to-da;  she  means  more  than  ever.  Over 
many  dying  boys  she  stoops  as  the  incarnation 
of  the  woman  whom,  had  they  lived,  they  would 
have  loved.  To  all  of  us,  with  the  blasphemy 
of  destroying  still  upon  us,  she  stands  for  the 
divinity  of  womanhood. 

What  sights  she  sees  and  what  words  she 
hears;  yet  the  pity  she  brings  to  her  work  pre- 
serves her  sweetness.  In  the  silence  of  the  night 
those  wlio  are  delirious  re-fight  their  recent  bat- 
tles. You're  half-asleep,  when  in  the  darkened 
ward  some  one  jumps  up  in  bed,  shouting,  "  Hold 
yc  .ir  bloody  hands  up."  He  thinks  he's  captur- 
ing a  Hun  trench,  taking  prisoners  in  a  bombed 
in  dug-out.  In  an  instant,  like  a  mother  with  a 
frightened  child,  she's  bending  over  him;  soon 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES    31 
she  has  coaxed  his  head  back  on  the  pillow.     Men 
do  not  die  in  vain  when  they  evoke  such  wome.i. 
And  the  men —  the  chaps  in  the  cots!     As  a 
patient  the  first  sight  you  have  of  them  is  a  muddy 
stretcher.     The  care  with  which  the  bearers  ad- 
vance is  only  equalled  by  the   A..)t.,r.^  in  old- 
established  London  Clubs  when  they  bring  .a  one 
of    their    choicest    wines.     Th ;    tiling    <  n    the 
stretcher  looks  horribly  like  some  of  the  forever 
silent  people  you  have  seen  in  No  Man's  Land. 
A  pair  of  boots  you  see,  a  British  Warm  flung 
across  the  body  and  an  arm  dragging.    A  screen 
is  put  round  a  bed ;  the  next  sight  you  have  of  him 
is  a  weary  face  lying  on  a  white  pillow.     Soon 
the  chap  in  the  bed  next  to  him  is  questioning. 
"What's  yours?" 

"Machine-gun  caught  me  in  both  legs." 
"  Going  to  lose  *em  ? " 

"Don't  know.  Can't  feel  much  at  present. 
Hope  not." 

Then  the  questioner  raises  himself  on  his  el- 
bow.    "How's  it  going?" 

It  is  the  attack.  The  conversation  that  fol- 
lows is  always  how  we're  hanging  on  to  such 
and  such  an  objective  and  have  pushed  forward 
three  hundred  yards  here  or  have  been  bent  back 
there.  One  thing  you  notice :  every  man  forgets 
his  own  catastrophe  in  his  keenness  for  the  suc- 


\m 


KH 


I 


32    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

cess  of  the  offensive.  Never  in  all  my  fortnight's 
journey  to  Blighty  did  I  hear  a  word  of  self-pity 
or  complaining.  On  the  contrary,  the  most 
severely  wounded  men  would  profess  themselves 
grateful  that  they  had  got  off  so  ligh.ly.  Since 
the  war  started  the  term  "  lightly  "  has  become 
exceedingly  comparative.  I  suppose  a  man  is 
justified  in  saying  he's  got  off  lightly  when  what 
he  expec*:d  was  death. 

I  remember  a  big  Highland  officer  who  had 
been  shot  in  the  knee-cap.    He  had  been  oper- 
ated on  and  the  knee-cap  had  been  found  to  be  so 
splintered  that  it  had  had  to  be  removed ;  of  this 
he  was  unaware.     For  the  first  day  as  he  lay  in 
bed  he  kept  wondering  aloud  how  long  it  would 
be  before  he  could  re-join  his  battalion.     Per- 
haps he  suspected  his  condition  and  was  trying 
to  find  out.     All  his  heart  seemed  set  on  once 
again  getting  into  the  fighting.     Next  morning 
he  plucked  up  courage  to  ask  the  doctor,  and 
received  the  answer  he  had  dreaded. 
"  Never.     You  won't  be  going  back,  old  chap.  " 
Next  time  he  spoke  his  voice  was  a  bit  throaty. 
"Will  it  stiffen?" 

"  You've  lost  the  knee-joint,"  the  doctor  said, 
"  but  with  luck  we'll  save  the  leg." 

His  voice  sank  to  a  whisper.     "If  you  do,  it 
won't  be  much  good,  will  it?" 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES    ^s 
"  Not  much." 

He  lay  for  a  couple  of  hours  silent,  re- 
adjusting his  mind  to  meet  the  new  conditions. 
Then  he  commenced  talkmg  with  cheerfulness 
about  returning  to  his  family.  The  habit  of 
courage  had  conquered  —  the  habit  of  courage 
which  grows  out  of  the  knowledge  that  you  let 
your  pals  down  by  showing  cowardice. 

The  next  step  on  the  road  to  Blighty  is  from 
the  Casualty  Station  to  a  Base  Hospital  in  France. 
You  go  on  a  hospital  train  and  are  only  allowed 
to  go  when  you  are  safe  to  travel.    There  is 
always  great  excitement  as  to  when  this  event 
will  happen;  its  precise  date  usually  depends  on 
what's  going  on  up  front  and  the  number  of  fresh 
casualties  which  are  expected.     One  morning  you 
awake  to  find  that  a  tag  has  been  prepared,  con- 
taining the  entire  medical  history  of  your  injury. 
The  stretcher-bearers  come  in  with  grins  on  their 
faces,  your  tag  is  tied  to  the  top  button  of  your 
pyjamas,  jocular  appointments  are  made  by  the 
fellows  you  leave  behind  —  many  of  whom  you 
know  are  dying  — to  meet  you  in  London,  and 
you  are  carried  out.     The  train  is  thoroughly 
equipped  with  doctors  and  nurses ;  the  lying  cases 
travel  in  little  white  bunks.     No  one  who  has 
not  seen  it  can  have  any  idea  of  the  high  good 
spirits    which    prevail.    You're    going    off    to 


f: 


'f. 


■  <MI*l'?-'V».    ^..  ■.  *tf'"lMM1EiV,4»»kVl#>fc  ' 


34  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

Blighty,  to  Piccadilly,  to  dry  boots  and  clean 
beds.  The  revolving  wheels  underneath  you 
seem  to  sing  the  words,  "Off  to  Blighty  —  to 
Blighty."  It  begins  to  dawn  on  you  what  it  will 
be  like  to  be  again  your  own  master  and  to  sleep 
as  long  as  you  like. 

Kindness  again  —  always  kindness!  The  sis- 
ters on  the  train  can't  do  enough;  they  seem  to 
be  trying  to  exceed  the  self-sacrifice  of  the  sisters 
you  have  left  behind.  You  twist  yourself  so  that 
you  can  get  a  glimpse  of  the  flying  country.  It's 
green,  undisturbed,  unmarred  by  shells  — there 
are  even  cows! 

At  the  Base  Hospital  to  which  I  went  there 
was  a  man  who  performed  miracles.  He  was  a 
naturalised  Arierican  citizen,  but  an  Armenian 
by  birth.     He  gave  people  new  faces. 

The  first  morning  an  officer  came  in  to  visit  a 
friend;  his  face  was  entirely  swathed  in  band- 
ages, with  gaps  left  for  his  breathing  and  his  eyes. 
He  had  been  like  that  for  two  years,  and  looked 
like  a  leper.  When  he  spoke  he  made  hollow 
noises.  His  nose  and  lower  jaw  had  been  torn 
away  by  an  exploding  shell.  Little  by  little,  with 
infinite  skill,  by  the  grafting  of  bone  and  flesh, 
his  face  was  being  built  up.  Could  any  surgery 
be  more  merciful? 

In  the  days  that  followed  I  saw  several  of  these 


imppi'^m^^mwmTf^^iesmmf^K^mk-^^ 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  35 

masked  men.  The  worst  cases  were  not  allowed 
to  walk  about.  The  ones  I  saw  were  invariably 
dressed  with  the  most  scrupulous  care  in  the 
smartest  uniforms,  Sam  Browns  polished  and 
buttons  shining.  They  had  hope,  and  took  a 
pride  in  themselves  —  a  splendid  sign !  Perhaps 
you  ask  why  the  face-cases  should  be  kept  in 
France.  I  was  not  told,  but  I  can  guess  —  be-  / 
cause  they  dread  going  back  to  England  to  their  ' 
girls  until  they've  got  rid  of  their  disfigurements. 
So  for  two  years  through  their  bandages  they 
watch  the  train  pull  out  for  Blighty,  while  the 
damage  which  was  done  them  in  the  fragment 
of  a  second  is  repaired. 

At  a  Base  Hospital  you  see  something  which 
you  don't  see  at  a  Casualty  Station  —  sisters, 
mothers,  sweethearts  and  wives  sitting  beside  the 
beds.  They're  allowed  to  come  over  from  Eng- 
land when  their  man  is  dying.  One  of  the  won- 
derful things  to  me  was  to  observe  how  these 
women  in  the  hour  of  their  tragedy  catch  the 
soldier  spirit.  They're  very  quiet,  very  cheerful, 
very  helpful.  With  passing  through  the  ward 
they  get  to  know  some  of  the  other  patients  and 
remember  them  when  they  bring  their  own  man 
flowers.  Sometimes  when  their  own  man  is 
asleep,  they  slip  over  to  other  bedsides  and  do 
something  kind  for  the  solitary  fellows.    That's 


Mi^^tW  r  .7^-'  T  '» JSHUr'^*^ 


'r-»CUS?>'.,f 


^^^ 


'"1  -^' 


b  ' 


36  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
the  anny  all  over;  military  discipline  is  based  on 
unselfishness.  These  women  who  have  been  sent 
for  to  see  their  men  die,  catch  from  them  the 
spirit  of  undistressed  sacrifice  and  enrol  them- 
selves as  soldiers. 

Next  to  my  bed  there  was  a  Colonel  of  a  north 
country  regiment,  a  gallant  gentleman  who  posi- 
tively  refused  to  die.     His  wife  had  been  with 
him  for  two  weeks,  a  little  toy  woman  with  nerves 
worn  to  a  frazzle,  who  masked  her  terror  with 
a  brave  set  smile.    The  Colonel  had  had  his  le^ 
smashed  by  a  whizz-bang  when  leading  his  troops 
into  action.    Septic  poisoning  had  set  in  and  the 
leg  had  been  amputated.     It  had  been  found  nec- 
essary to  operate  several  times  owing  to  the 
poison  spreading,  with  the  result  that,  being  far 
from  a  young  man.  his  strength  was  exhausted. 
Men  forgot  their  own  wounds  in  watching  this 
one  mans  fight  for  life.    He  became  syi^bolic 
of  what,  m  varying  degrees,  we  were  all  doing. 
When  he  was  passing  through  a  crisis  the  whole 
ward  waited  breathless.    There  was  the  finest 
kind  of  rivalry  between  the  night  and  day  sisters 
to  hand  him  over  at  the  end  of  each  twelve  hours 
with  his  pulse  stronger  and  temperature  lower 

tTjJ^'u    '^'^  '"'"^^"^  ^^'"'     Each  was  sure 
she  had  the  secret  of  keeping  him  alive 

You  discovered  the  spirit  of  the  man  when 


w<i  ■'^i^w.dr* .  ^t-T-  .#'-  .*Fi  riwi  Br'nii  • 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES    '37 

you  heard  him  wandering  in  delirium.  All  night 
in  the  shadowy  ward  with  its  hooded  lamps,  he 
would  be  giving  orders  for  the  comfort  of  his 
men.  Sometimes  he'd  be  proposing  to  go  for- 
ward himself  to  a  place  where  a  company  was 
having  a  hot  time ;  apparently  one  of  his  officers 
was  trying  to  dissuade  him.  "Danger  be 
damned,"  he'd  exclaim  in  a  wonderfully  strong 
voice.  "  It'll  buck  'em  up  to  see  me.  Splendid 
chaps  —  splendid  chaps !  " 

About  dawn  he  was  usually  supposed  to  be 
sinking,  but  he'd  rallied  again  by  the  time  the 
day-sister  arrived.  "Still  here,"  he'd  smile  in 
a  triumphant  kind  of  whisper,  as  though  bluffing 
death  was  a  pastime. 

One  afternoon  a  padre  came  to  visit  him.  'As 
he  was  leaving  he  bent  above  the  pillow.  We 
learnt  afterwards  that  this  was  what  he  had 
said,  "If  the  good  Lr/d  lets  you,  I  hope  you'll 
gtt  better." 

We  saw  the  Colonel  raise  himself  up  on  his 
elbow.  His  weak  voice  shook  with  anger. 
"  Neither  God  nor  the  Devil  has  anything  to  do 
with  it.  I'm  going  to  get  well."  Then,  as  the 
nurse  came  hurrying  to  him,  he  sank  back. 

When  I  left  the  Base  Hospital  for  Blighty  he 
was  still  holding  his  own.  I  have  never  heard 
what  happened  to  him,  but  should  not  be  at  all 


lib 


■  m 


I'  I 


^w^ymof 


38    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
surprised  to  meet  him  one  day  in  the  trenchei 
w,th  a  wooden  \tg,  still  leading  his  splendid 
chaps.    Death  can't  kiU  men  of  such  heroic 
courage. 

Iff  the  Bhghty  Smile."  It's  supposed  to  be  the 
I  kind  of  look  a  chap  wears  when  he's  been  told 
IJhat  withm  twenty-four  hours  he'll  be  in  Eng- 

land.    When  this  information  has  been  imparted 
to  him  he  s  served  out  with  waim  socks,  woollen 
cap  and  a  little  linen  bag  into  which  to  put  his 
valuables.     Hours  and  hours  before  there's  any 
chance  of  starting  you'll  see  the  lucky  ones  lying 
veor  still,  with  a  happy  vacant  look  in  their  eyes 
and  their  absurd  woollen  caps  stuck  ready  on 
their  heads.       Sometime,  perhaps  in  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning,  the  stretcher-bearers,  ar- 
rive—the  stretcher-bearers  who  all  down  the 
hnes   of   communication   are    forever   carrying 
others  towards  blessedness  and  never  going  them- 
selves    "At    last,"    you    whisper   to   yourself. 
You  feel  a  glorious  anticipation  that  you  have 
not  known  since  childhood  when,  after  three 
hundred  and  sixty-four  days  of  waiting,  it  was 
truly  going  to  be  Christmas. 

On  the  train  and  on  the  passage  there  is  the 
same  skilful  attention  -  the  same  ungrudging 
kmdness.     You  see  new  faces  in  the  bunks  beside 


:'?T^ 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     39 

you.  After  the  tedium  of  the  narrow  confines 
of  a  ward  that  in  itself  is  exciting.  You  fall 
into  talk. 

"What's  yours?" 

"  Nothing  much  —  just  a  hand  oflF  and  a  splin- 
ter or  two  in  the  shoulder." 

You   laugh.    "That's   not   so   dusty.    How 
much  did  you  expect  for  your  money? " 

Probably  you  meet  some  one  fr^/m  the  part  of 
the  line  where  you  were  wourded  -with  luck 
even  from  your  own  brigade,  b..ttery  or  battal- 
ion.   Then  the  talk  becomes  all  about  how  things 
are  going,  whether  we're  still  holding  on  to  our 
objectives,  who's  got  a  blighty  and  who's  gone 
west.    One  discussion  you  don't  often  hear  — 
as  to  when  the  war  will  end.    To  these  civilians  1 
in  khaki  it  seems  that  the  war  has  always  been  / 
and  that  they  will  never  cease  to  be  soldiers. 
For  them  both  past  and  future  are  utterly  ob- 
literated.    They  would  not  have  it  otherwise. 
Because  they  are  doing  their  duty  they  are  con- 
tented.    The  only  time  the  subject  is  ever  touched 
on  is  when  some  one  expresses  th    hope  that  it'll 
last  long  enough  for  him  to  recover  from  his 
wounds  and  get  back  into  the  line.    That  usually 
starts  another  man,  who  will  never  be  any  more 
good  for  the  trenches,  wondering  whether  he  can 
get  into  the  flying  corps.     The  one  ultimate  hope 


:   li 


Ml 


'•'Si 


<&»k       ...ttBdVlr       .^Mf 


^M-rstejr- 


If    ' 
It 


40    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
of  all  these  shattered  wrecks  who  are  being  hur- 
ried to  the  Bhghty  they  have  dreamt  of.  is  that 
they  may  again  see  service. 

The  tang  of  salt  in  the  air,  the  beat  of  waves 
and  then,  incredible  even  when  it  has  been  real- 
ised. England.     I  tjiink  they  ought  to  makuk— 

r.^l^ii'igiBg^which  runi^j:5mir^:inTXT''^ 

^y  then  ms^d  of  watclnng  little  triangles  of  i^ 
^  count^Tby  leaning  uncomfortably  far  out  of  Ihmf^ 

^      .  ir ';  ^^"^  '^-'^-^"^i^ii^liN  abk  to  drinl.  tk^.V 

j  full  of  the  greenness  which  they  have  longed  for 
so  many  months.    The  trees  aren't  charred  and 
blackened   stumps;   they're   harps   between   the 
knees  of  the  hills,  played  on  by  the  wind  and 
sun.    The  villages  have  their  roofs  on  and  chil- 
dren romping  in  their  streets.    The  church  spires 
haven t  been  knocked  down;  they  stand  up  tall 
and  stately.    The  roadsides  aren't  lin^rcd  with 
empty  shell-cases  and  dead  horses.    The  fields 
are  absolutely  fields,  with  green  crops,  all  wavy, 
hke   hair   growing.    After   the   tonsured    filth 
we  ve  been  accustomed  to  call  a  world,  all  this 
strikes    one   as    unnatural    and    extraordinary. 
There  s  a  sweet  fragrance  over  everything  and 
ones  throat  feels  lumpy.    Perhaps  it  isn't  good 

thJ/'''?M^'f  \*°  ^^^'  ^""'Py  *^^°^ts.  and 
that  s  why  they  don't  run  glass  trains  to  London. 

Then,  after  such  excited  waiting,  you  feel  that 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES    41 
the  engine  is  slowing  down.    There's  a  hollow 
rumbling;  you're  crossing  the  dear  old  wrinkled 
Thames.    H  you  looked  out  you'd  see  the  dome 
of  St.  Paul's  like  a  bubble  on  the  sky-line  and 
smoking  chimneys   sticking  up  like  thumbs  — 
things  quite  ugly  and  things  of  surpassing  beauty, 
all  of  which  you  have  never  hoped  to  see  again 
and  which  in  dreams  you  have  loved.     But  if 
you  could  look  out.  you  wouldn't  have  the  time. 
You  re  getting  your  things  together,  so  you  won't 
waste  a  moment  when  they  come  to  carry  you 
out.     Very  probably  you're  secreting  a  souvenir 
or  two  about  your  person:  something  you've 
smuggled  down  from  the  front  which  will  really 
prove  to  your  people  that  you've  made  the  ac- 
quamtance  of  the  Hun.    As  though  your  wounds 
didn't  prove  that  sufficiently.     Men  are  childish. 
The  engine  comes  to  a  halt.     You  can  smell 
the  cab-stands.     You're  really  there.    An  officer 
comes  through  the  train  enquiring  whether  you 
have  any  preference  as  to  hospitals.     Your  girl 
li^ves  in  Liverpool  or  Glasgow  or  Brmingham. 
Good  heavens,  the  fellow  holds  your  destiny  in 
his  hands  I    He  can  send  you  to  Whitechapel  if 
he  likes.     So.  even  though  he  has  the  same  rank 
as  yourself,  you  address  him  as.  "Sir." 

Perhaps  it's  because  I've  practised  this  di- 
plomacy —  I  don't  know.    Anyway,  he's  granted 


.1; 


■m 


MJ^^' 


1 


i 


43  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
my  request.  Fm  to  ^ly  in  London.  I  was  par- 
ticularly anxiout  to  lUy  in  ..don.  becauic  one 
of  my  young  brothcri  from  ihe  Navy  it  there  on 
leave  at  present.  In  fact  he  wireU  me  to  France 
that  the  Admiralty  had  allowed  him  a  three-dayt' 
special  extension  of  leave  in  order  that  he  might 
see  me.  It  was  on  the  strength  of  this  message 
that  the  doctors  at  the  Base  Hospital  permittetl 
me  to  take  the  journey  several  days  before  I  was 
really  in  a  condition  to  travel. 

I'm  wondering  whether  he's  gained  admission 
to  the  platform.     I  lie  there  in  my  bunk  all  eyes, 
expecting  any  minute  to  see  him  enter.     Time 
and  again  I  mistake  the  blue  serge  uniform  of 
the  St.  John's  Ambulance  for  that  of  a  naval 
lieutenant.     They  come  to  carry  me  out.     What 
an  extraordinarily  funny  way  to  enter  London  — 
on  a  stretcher  I    I've  arrived  on  boat-trains  from 
America,  troop  trains  from  Canada,  and  come 
back  from  romantic  romps  in  Italy,  but  never 
in  my  wildest  imaginings  did  I  picture  myself 
arriving  as  a  wounded  soldier  on  a  Red  Cross 
train. 

Still  clu  ing  my  absurd  linen  bag.  which 
contains  my  valuables,  I  lift  my  head  from  the 
pillow  gazing  round  for  any  glimpse  of  that 
much-desired  brother.  Now  they've  popped  me 
onto  the  upper-shelf  of  a  waiting  ambulance;  I 


>^   W 


; 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  43 

can  %tt  nothing  except  what  liei  out  at  the  back. 
I  at  once  sUrt  explaining  to  the  nurse  who  ac- 
companies us  that  I've  lost  a  very  valuable 
brother  — that  he'i  probably  looking  for  me 
somewhere  on  the  station.  She's  extremely 
sympathetic  and  asks  the  chauffeur  to  drive  very 
slowly  so  that  we  may  watch  for  him  as  we  go 
through  the  station  gates  into  the  Strand. 

We're  delayed  for  some  minutes  while  par- 
ticulars are  checked  up  of  our  injuries  and  des- 
tinations. The  lying  cases  are  placed  four  in 
an  ambulance,  with  the  flap  raised  at  the  back 
so  we  can  see  out.  The  sitting  cases  travel  in 
automobiles,  buses  and  various  kinds  of  vehicles. 
In  my  ambulance  there  are  two  leg-cases  with 
most  theatrical  bandages,  and  one  case  of  trench- 
fever.  We're  immensely  merry  —  all  except  the 
trench- fever  case  who  has  conceived  an  immense 
sorrow  for  himself.  We  get  impatient  with 
waiting.  There's  an  awful  lot  of  cheering  going 
on  somewhere;  we  suppose  troops  are  marching 
and  can't  make  it  out. 

Ah,  we've  started!  At  a  slow  crawl  to  pre- 
vent jarring  we  pass  through  the  gates.  We  dis- 
cover the  meaning  of  the  cheering.  On  either 
side  the  people  are  lined  in  dense  crowds,  waving 
and  shouting.  It's  Saturday  evening  when  they 
should  be  in  the  country.     It's  jolly  decent  of 


ii 

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44  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

them  to  come  here  to  give  us  such  a  welcome. 
Flower-girls  are  here  with  their  l)askets  full  of 
flowers  — just  poor  girls  with  a  living  to  earn. 
They  run  after  us  as  we  pass  and  strew  us  with 
roses.     Roses  I    We  stretch  out  our  hands,  press- 
ing them  to  our  lips.     How  long  is  it  since  we 
held  roses  in  our  hands?    How  did  these  girls 
of  the  London  streets  know  that  above  all  things 
we  longed  for  flowers?    It  was  worth  it  all,  the 
mud  and  stench  and  beastliness,  when  it  was  to 
this  that  the  road  led  back.    And  the  girls  — 
they're  even  better  than  the  flowers;  so  many 
pretty  faces  made  kind  by  compassion.     Some- 
where inside  ourselves  we're  laughing;  we're  so 
happy.    We  don't  need  any  one's   pity;   time 
enough  for  that  when  we  start  to  pity  ourselves. 
We  feel  mean,  as  though  we  were  part  of  a  big 
deception.     We  aren't  half  so  ill  as  we  look;  if 
you  put  sufficient  bandages  on  a  wound  you  can 
make  the  healthiest  man  appear  tragic.     We're 
laughing —  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  we're  cry- 
ing.    We   press   our   faces  against   the  pillow 
ashamed    of    ourselves.     We    won't    see    the 
crowds;  we're  angry  with  them  for  having  un- 
manned us.     And  then  we  can't  help  looking; 
their  love  reaches  us  almost  as  though  it  were 
the  touch  of  hands.    We  won't  hide  ourselves 


^•♦^'    ■■XTBl 


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THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES    45 

if  we  mean  so  much  to  them.  We're  not  angry 
any  more,  but  grateful. 

Suddenly  the  ambulance-nurse  shouts  to  the 
driver.  The  ambulance  stops.  She's  quite  ex- 
cited. Clutching  me  with  one  hand,  she  points 
with  the  other,  "  There  he  is." 

"Who?" 

I  raise  myself.  A  naval  lieutenant  is  standing 
against  the  pavement,  gazing  anxiously  at  the 
passing  traffic. 

"Your  brother,  isn't  it?" 

I  shook  my  head.  "Not  half  handsome 
enough." 

For  the  rest  of  the  journey  she's  convinced  I 
have  a  headache.  It's  no  good  telling  her  that 
I  haven't;  much  to  my  annoyance  and  amuse- 
ment she  swabs  my  forehead  with  eau-de- 
Cologne,  telling  me  that  I  shall  soon  feel  better. 

The  streets  through  which  we  pass  are  on  the 
south  side  of  the  Thames.  It's  Saturday  even- 
ing. Hawkers'  barrows  line  the  kerb;  women 
with  draggled  skirts  and  once  gay  hats  are  doing 
their  Sunday  shopping.  We're  having  a  kind 
of  triumphant  procession;  with  these  people  to 
feel  is  to  express.  We  catch  some  of  their  re- 
marks: "'CGI  Look  at 'is  poor  leg!"  "My, 
but  ain't  'e  done  in  shockin'  I  " 


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HK-^t'-^IE'  14SK' 


46  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

Dear  old  London  —  so  kind,  so  brave,  so 
frankly  human!  You're  just  like  the  chaps  at 
the  Front  —  you  laugh  when  you  suffer  and  give 
when  you're  starving ;  you  never  know  when  not 
to  be  generous.  You  wear  your  heart  in  your 
eyes  and  your  lips  are  always  ready  for  kissing. 
I  think  of  you  as  one  of  your  own  flower-girls  — 
hoarse  of  voice,  slatternly  as  to  corsets,  with  a 
big  tumbled  fringe  over  your  forehead,  and  a 
heart  so  big  that  you  can  chuck  away  your  roses 
to  a  wounded  Tommy  and  go  away  yourself  with 
an  empty  basket  to  sleep  under  an  archway.  Do 
you  wonder  that  to  us  you  spell  Blighty?  We 
love  you. 

We  come  to  a  neighbourhood  more  respect- 
able and  less  demonstrative,  skirt  a  common,  are 
stopped  at  a  porter's  lodge  and  turn  into  a  park- 
land. The  glow  of  sunset  is  ended;  the  blue- 
grey  of  twilight  is  settling  down.  Between 
flowered  borders  we  pick  our  way,  pause  here 
and  there  for  directions  and  at  last  halt.  Again 
the  stretcher-bearers!  As  I  am  carried  in  I 
catch  a  glimpse  of  a  low  bungalow-building,  with 
others  like  it  dotted  about  beneath  trees.  There 
are  red  shaded  lamps.  Every  one  tiptoes  in 
silence.  Only  the  lips  move  when  people  speak; 
there  is  scarcely  any  sound.  As  the  stretchers 
are  borne  down  the  ward  men  shift  their  heads 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  47 

to  gaze  after  them.  It's  past  ten  o'clock  and 
patients  are  supposed  to  be  sleeping  now.  I'm 
put  to  bed.  There's  no  news  of  my  brother ;  he 
hasn't  'phoned  and  hasn't  called.  I  persuade  one 
of  the  orderlies  to  ring  up  the  hotel  at  which  I 
know  he  was  staying.  The  man  is  a  long  while 
gone.  Through  the  dim  length  of  the  ward  I 
watch  the  door  into  the  garden,  momentarily  ex- 
pecting the  familiar  figure  in  the  blue  uniform 
and  gold  buttons  to  enter.  He  doesn't.  Then 
at  length  the  orderly  returns  to  tell  me  that  the 
naval  lieutenant  who  was  staying  at  the  hotel, 
had  to  set  out  for  his  ship  that  evening,  as  there 
was  no  train  that  he  could  catch  on  Sunday.  So 
he  was  steaming  out  of  London  for  the  North 
at  the  moment  I  was  entering.  Disappointed? 
Yes.  One  shrugs  his  shoulders.  Cest  la  guerre, 
as  we  say  in  the  trenches.  You  can't  have  every- 
thing when  Europe's  at  war. 

I  can  hardly  keep  awake  lonj  enough  for  the 
sister  to  dress  my  arm.  The  roses  that  the 
flower-girls  had  thrown  me  are  in  water  and 
within  handstretch.  They  seem  almost  persons 
and  curiously  sacred  —  symbols  of  all  the  hero- 
ism and  kindness  that  has  ministered  to  me  every 
step  of  the  journey.  It's  a  good  little  war  I 
think  to  myself.  Then,  with  the  green  smell  of 
England  in  my  nostrils  and  the  rumbling  of  Lon- 


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48  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

don  in  my  ears,  like  conversation  below  stairs, 
I  drowse  off  into  the  utter  contentment  of  the 
first  deep  sleep  I  have  had  since  I  was  wounded. 
I  am  roused  all  too  soon  by  some  one  sticking 
a  thermometer  into  my  mouth.    Rubbing  my 
eyes,    I    consult    my    watch.    Half-past    five! 
Rather  early!     Raising  myself  stealthily,  I  catch 
a  glimpse  of  a  neat  little  sister  darting  down  the 
ward  from  bed  to  bed,  tent-pegging  every  sleep- 
ing  face  with  a   fresh  thermometer.     Having 
made  the  round,  back  she  comes  to  take  posses- 
sion of  my  hand  while  she  counts  my  pulse.     I 
try  to  speak,  but  she  won't  let  me  remove  the 
accursed  thermometer ;  when  she  has  removed  it 
herself,  off  she  goes  to  the  next  bed.     I  notice 
that  she  has  auburn  hrir,  merry  blue  eyes  and  a 
ripping  Irish  accent.     I  learn  later  that  she's  a 
Sinn  Feiner,  a  sworn  enemy  to  England  who 
sings  "Dark  Rosaleen"  and  other  rebel  songs 
in  the  secret  watches  of  the  night.     It  seems  to 
me  that  in  taking  care  of  England's  wounded 
she's  solving  the  Irish  problem  pretty  well. 

Heavens,  she's  back  again,  this  time  with  a 
bowl  of  water  and  a  towel !  Very  severely  and 
thoroughly,  as  though  I  were  a  dirty  urchin,  she 
scrubs  my  face  and  hands.  She  even  brushes 
my  hair.     I  watch  her  do  the  same  for  other 


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THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  49 

patients,  some  of  whom  are  Colonels  and  old 
enough  to  be  her  father.  She's  evidently  in  no 
mood  for  proposals  of  marriage  at  this  early 
hour,  for  her  technique  is  impartially  severe  to 
everybody,  though  her  blue  eyes  are  unfailingly 
laughing. 

It  is  at  this  point  that  somebody  crawls  out  of 
bed,  slips  into  a  dressing-gown,  passes  through 
the  swing  door  at  the  end  of  the  ward  and  sets 
the  bath-water  running.  The  sound  of  it  .is 
ecstatic. 

Very  soon  others  follow  his  example.  They're 
chaps  without  legs,  with  an  arm  gone,  a  hand 
gone,  back  wounds,  stomach  wounds,  holes  in  the 
head.  They  start  cha^Tmg  one  another.  There's 
no  hint  of  tragedy.  A  gale  of  laughter  sweeps 
the  ward  from  end  to  end.  An  Anzac  captain 
is  called  on  for  a  speech.  I  discover  that  he  is 
our  professional  comic  man  and  is  called  on  to 
make  speeches  twenty  times  a  day.    The,  always 

start  with,  "  Gentlemen,  I  will  say  this " 

and  end  with  a  flourish  in  praise  of  Australia. 
Soon  the  ward  is  made  perilous  by  wheel-chairs, 
in  which  unskilful  pilots  steer  themselves  out  into 
the  green  adventure  of  the  garden.  Birds  are 
singing  out  there ;  the  guns  had  done  for  the  birds 
in  the  places  where  we  came  from.    Through 


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50    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
open  doors  we  can  see  the  glow  of  flowers,  dew- 
laden  and  sparkling,  lazily  unfolding  their  petals 
in  the  early  sun. 

When  the  sister's  back  is  turned,  a  one-legged 
-officer  nips  out  of  bed  and  hops  like  a  crow  to 
the  gramophone.     The  song  that  follows  is  a 
favourite.     Curious   that   it   should   be,    for   it 
paints  a  dream  which  to  many  of  these  mutilated 
men  —  Canadians,  Australians,  South  Africans. 
Imperials  —  will  have  to  remain  only  a  dream,  so 
long  as  life  lasts.     Girls  don't  marry  fellows 
without  arms  and  legs  —  at  least  they  didn't  in 
peace  days  before  the  world  became  heroic.    As 
the  gramophone  commences  to  sing,  heads  on 
pillows  hum  the  air  and  fingers  tap  in  cime  on  the 
sheets.     It's  a  peculiarly  childish  song  for  men 
who  have  seen  what  they  have  seen  and  done 
what  they  have  done,  to  be  so  fond  of.    Here's 
.the  way  it  runs: — 

"We'll  have  a  little  cottage  in  a  little  town 
And  well  have  a  little  mistress  in  a  dainty  gown 
A  little  doggie,  a  little  cat, 
A  little  doorstep  with  welcome  on  the  mat ; 
And  we'll  have  a  little  trouble  and  a  little  strife, 
But  none  of  these  things  matter  when  you've  got  a  little 

wife. 
We  shall  be  as  happy  as  the  angels  up  above 
With  a  little  patience  and  a  lot  of  love." 


II    li 


iilF^JV 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  51 

A  little  patience  and  a  lot  of  love!  I  suppose 
that's  the  line  that's  caught  the  chaps.  Behind 
all  their  smiling  and  their  boyish  gaiety  they 
know  that  they'll  need  both  patience  and  love  to 
meet  the  balance  of  existence  with  sweetness  and 
soldierly  courage.  It  won't  be  so  easy  to  be 
soldiers  when  they  get  back  into  mufti  and  go 
out  into  the  world  cripples.  Here  in  their  pyja- 
mas in  the  summer  sun,  they're  making  a  first 
class  effort.  I  take  another  look  at  them.  No, 
there'll  never  be  any  whining  from  men  such  as 
these. 

Some  of  us  will  soon  be  back  in  the  fighting  — 
and  jolly  glad  of  it.  Others  are  doomed  to  re- 
main in  the  trenches  for  the  rest  of  their  lives 
—  not  the  trenches  of  the  front-line  where 
they've  been  strafed  by  the  Hun,  but  the  trenches 
of  physical  curtailment  where  self-pity  will  launch 
wave  after  wave  of  attack  against  them.  It  won't 
be  easy  not  to  get  the  "  wind  up."  It'll  be  diffi- 
cult to  maintain  normal  cheerfulness.  But 
they're  not  the  men  they  were  before  they  went 
to  war  — out  there  they've  learnt  something. 
They're  game.  They'll  remain  soldiers,  what- 
ever happens. 


I 


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THE  LADS  AWAY 

All  tht  lads  havt  gont  out  to  play 
At  being  soldiers,  far  atvay; 
They  won't  be  back  for  many  a  day. 
And  some  won't  be  back  any  morning, 

Alt  the  lassies  who  laughing  were 
When  hearts  were  light  and  lads  were  here, 
Co  sad-eyed,  wandering  hither  and  there—  ' 
They  pray  and  they  watch  for  the  mart.  itg. 

Every  house  has  its  vacant  bed 
And  every  night,  when  sounds  are  dead. 
Some  woman  yearns  for  the  pillowed  head 
Of  him  who  marched  out  in  the  morning. 

Of  all  the  lads  who've  gone  out  to  play 
There's  some'll  return  and  some  who'll  stay; 
There's  some  will  be  back  'most  any  day—  ' 
But  some  won't  wake  up  in  the  morning. 


\ 


I'  i 


5 


II 


THE  GROWING  OF  THE  VISION 

I'm  continuing  in  America  the  book  which  I 
thought  out  during  the  golden  July  and  August 
days  when  I  lay  in  the  hospital  in  London.  I've 
been  here  a  fortnight ;  everything  that's  happened 
seems  unbelievably  wonderful,  as  though  it  had 
happened  to  some  one  other  than  myself.  It'll 
seem  still  more  wonderful  in  a  few  weeks*  time 
when  I'm  where  I  hope  I  shall  be  —  back  in  the 
mud  at  the  Front. 

Here's  how  this  miraculous  turn  of  events  oc- 
curred. When  I  went  before  my  medical  board 
I  was  declared  unfit  for  active  service  for  at  least 
two  months.  A  few  days  later  I  went  in  to 
General  Headquarters  to  sec  what  were  the 
chances  of  a  trip  to  New  York.  The  officer 
whom  I  consulted  pulled  out  his  watch,  "  It's 
noon  now.  There's  a  boat-train  leaving  Huston 
in  two  and  a  half  hours.  Do  you  think  you  can 
pack  up  and  make  it?" 

Did  I  think! 

**You  watch  me,"  I  cried. 

53 


m 

m 


ii 


i 

i 

I 


54  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

Dashing^  out  into  Regent  Street  I  rounded  op 
a  taxi  and  raced  about  London  like  one  po^ 
sessed,  collecting  kit,  visiting  tailors,  withdrawing 
money,  telephoning  friends  with  whom  I  had  din- 
ner and  theatre  engagements.  It's  an  extraor- 
dinary  characteristic  of  the  Army,  but  however 
hurried  an  officer  may  be,  he  can  always  spa-e 
time  to  visit  his  tailor.  The  fare  I  paid  my  taxi- 
driver  was  too  monstrous  for  words;  but  then 
he'd  missed  his  lunch,  and  one  has  to  miss  so 
many  things  in  war-times  that  when  a  new  straw 
of  inconvenience  is  piled  on  the  camel,  the  camel 
expects  to  be  compensated.  Anyway,  I  was  on 
that  boat-train  when  it  pulled  out  of  London. 

I  was  in  uniform  when  I  arrived  in  New  York, 
for  I  didn't  possess  any  mufti.  You  can't  guess 
what  a  difference  that  made  to  one's  home- 
coming—not the  being  in  uniform,  but  the 
knowing  that  it  wasn't  an  offence  to  wear  it. 
On  my  last  leave,  some  time  ago  before  I  went 
overseas,  if  I'd  tried  to  cross  the  border  from 
Canada  in  uniform  I'd  have  been  turned  back; 
if  by  any  chance  I'd  got  across  and  worn  regi- 
mentals I'd  have  been  arrested  by  the  first  Irish 
policeman.  A  place  isn't  home  where  you  get 
turned  back  or  locked  up  for  wearing  the  things 
of  which  you're  proudest.  If  America  hadn't 
come  into  the  war  none  of  us  who  have  loved 


:]■  I 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  55 

her  and  since  been  to  the  trenches,  would  ever 
have  wanted  to  return. 

But  she's  home  now  as  she  never  was  before 
and  never  could  have  been  under  any  other  cir- 
cumstances—  now  that  khaki  strides  unabashed 
down  Broadway  and  the  skirl  of  the  pipers  has 
been  heard  on  Fifth  Avenue.  We  men  "over 
there "  will  have  to  find  a  new  name  for 
America.  It  won't  be  exactly  Blighty,  but  a  kind 
of  very  wealthy  first  cousin  to  Blighty  —  a  word 
meaning  something  generous  and  affectionate 
and  steam-heated,  waiting  for  us  on  the  other 
tide  of  the  Atlantic. 

Two  weeks  here  already  —  two  weeks  more  to 
go;  then  back  to  the  glory  of  the  trenches! 

There's  one  person  I've  missed  since  my  re- 
turn to  New  York.  I've  caught  glimpses  of  him 
disappearing  around  comers,  but  he  dodges.  I 
think  he's  a  bit  ashamed  to  meet  me.  That  per- 
son is  my  old  civilian  self.  What  a  full-blown 
egoist  he  used  to  be  1  How  full  of  golden  plans 
for  his  own  advancement!  How  terrified  of 
failure,  of  disease,  of  money  losses,  of  death  — 
of  all  the  temporary,  external,  non-essential 
things  that  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  spirit! 
War  is  in  itself  damnable  —  a  profligate  misuse 
of  the  accumulated  brain-stuflF  of  centuries. 
Nevertheless,  there's  many  a  man  who  has  no 


\  m 
(#1 


1 


56  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

love  of  wir,  who  previout  to  the  war  had 
cramped  hit  loul  with  littleness  and  was  chased 
by  the  bayonet  of  duty  into  the  blood-stained 
largeness  of  the  trenches,  who  has  learnt  to  say, 
"  Thank  God  for  this  war."  He  thanks  God  not 
because  of  the  carnage,  but  because  when  the 
wine-press  of  new  ideals  was  being  trodden,  he 
was  born  in  an  age  when  he  could  do  his  share. 

America's  going  through  just  about  the  same 
experience  as  myself.  She's  feeling  broader  in 
the  chest,  bigger  in  the  heart  and  her  eyes  are 
clearer.  When  she  catches  sight  of  the  America 
that  she  was,  she's  filled  with  doubt  —  she  can't 
believe  that  that  person  with  the  Stars  and  Stripei 
wrapped  round  her  and  a  money-bag  in  either 
hand  ever  was  herself.  Home,  clean  and  hon- 
ourable for  every  man  who  ever  loved  her  and 
has  pledged  his  life  for  an  ideal  with  the  Alliet 
—  that's  what  she's  become  now. 

I  read  again  the  words  that  I  wrote  about  those 
thaps  in  the  London  hospital,  men  who  had 
journeyed  to  their  Calvary  glad-hearted  from 
the  farthest  comers  of  the  world.  From  this 
distance  I  see  them  in  truer  perspective  than 
when  we  lay  companions  side  by  side  in  that  long 
line  of  neat,  white  cots.  I  used  to  grope  after 
ways  to  explain  them  — to  explain  the  courage 
which  in  their  utter  heroism  they  did  not  realise 


^^^^r' 


'>>^  ■ 


.1 


7F 


IS 


r 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  57 

they  posscssctl.  They  had  grown  so  accustonied 
to  a  brave  way  of  living  that  they  sincerely  be- 
lieved they  were  (juite  ordinary  persons.  That's 
courage  at  its  finest  —  when  it  becomes  uncon- 
scious and  instinctive. 

At  first  I  said,  "  I  know  why  they're  so  cheer- 
ful—its  because  they're  all  here  in  one  ward 
together.  They're  all  mutilated  more  or  less,  so 
they  don't  feel  that  they're  exceptional.  It's  as 
though  the  whole  world  woke  up  with  toothache 
one  morning.  At  breakfast  every  one  would  be 
feeling  very  sorry  for  himself;  by  lunch-time, 
when  it  had  become  common  knowledge  that  the 
entire  world  had  the  same  kind  of  ache,  tooth- 
ache would  have  ceased  to  exist.  It's  the  lone- 
liness of  being  abnor^nal  in  your  suffering  that 
hurts." 

But  it  wasn't  that.  Even  while  I  was  con- 
fined to  the  hospital,  in  hourly  contact  with  the 
chaps,  I  felt  that  it  wasn't  that.  When  I  w^s 
allowed  to  dress  and  go  down  West  for  a  few 
hours  everyday,  I  knew  that  I  was  wrong  most 
certainly.  In  Piccadilly,  Hyde  Park,  theatres, 
restaurants,  river-places  on  the  Thames  you'd 
see  them,  these  men  who  were  maimed  for  life, 
climbing  up  and  down  buses,  hobbling  on  their 
crutches  independently  through  crowds,  hailing 
one  another  cheerily  from  taxis,  drinking  life 


•S«    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

joyously  in  big  gulps  without  complaint  or  sense 
of  martyrdom,  and  getting  none  of  the  dregs. 
A  part  of  their  secret  was  that  through  their 
experience  in  the  trenches  they  had  learnt  to  be 
self- forgetful.    The   only   time   I    ever   saw   a 
wounded  man  lose  his  temper  was  when  some  one 
out  of  kindness  made  him  remember  himself. 
A  sudden  down-pour  of  rain  had  commenced;  it 
was  towards  evening  and  all  the  employees  of  the 
West  End  shopping  centre  were  making  haste 
to  get  home  to  the  suburbs.    A  young  Highland 
officer  who  had  lost  a  leg  scrambled  into  a  bus 
going  to  Wandsworth.    The  inside  of  the  bus 
was  jammed,  so  he  had  to  stand  up  clutching  on 
to  a  strap.     A  middle-aged  gentleman  rose  from 
his  seat  and  offered  it  to  the  Highlander.     The 
Highlander  smiled  his  thanks  and  shook  his  head. 
The  middle-aged  gentleman  in  his  sympathy  be- 
came pressing,  attracting  attention  to  the  officer's 
infirmity.     It  was  then  that  the  officer  lost  his 
temper.     I  saw  him  flush. 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  he  said  sharply.  "  There's 
nothing  the  matter  with  me.  Thanks  all  the 
same.    I'll  stand." 

This  habit  of  being  self- forgetful  gives  one 
time  to  be  remindful  of  others.  Last  January, 
during  a  brief  and  glorious  ten  days'  leave,  I 
went  to  a  matinee  at  the  Coliseum.     Vesta  Tilley 


m'.^'j 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  59 

was  doing  an  extraordinarily  funny  impersona- 
tion of  a  Tommy  just  home  from  the  comfort  of 
the  trenches ;  her  sketch  depicted  the  terrible  dis- 
comforts of  a  fighting  man  on  leave  in  Blighty. 
H  I  remember  rightly  the  refrain  of  her  song 
ran  somewhat  in  this  fashion: 

**  Next  time  they  want  to  give  me  six  days*  leave 
Let  em  make  it  six  months*  'ard." 

There  were  two  officers,  a  major  and  a  cap- 
tain, behind  us ;  judging  by  the  sounds  they  made, 
they  were  getting  their  full  money's  worth  of 
enjoyment.  In  the  interval,  when  the  lights 
went  up,  I  turned  and  saw  the  captain  putting  a 
cigarette  between  the  major's  lips;  then,  having 
gripped  a  match-box  between  his  knees  so  that 
he  might  strike  the  match,  he  lit  the  cigarette  for 
his  friend  very  awkwardly.  I  looked  closer  and 
discovered  that  the  laughing  a  ain  had  only  one 
hand  and  the  equally  happy  major  had  none  at 
all. 

Men  forget  their  own  infirmities  in  their  en- 
deavour to  help  each  other.  Before  the  war  we 
had  a  phrase  which  has  taken  on  a  new  meaning 
now;  we  used  to  talk  about  "lending  a  hand." 
To-day  we  lend  not  only  hands,  but  arms  and 
eyes  and  legs.  The  wonderful  comradeship 
learnt  in  the  trenches  has  taught  men  to  lend  their 


m 


U 


6o  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 


i 


!i^ 


I 


bodies  to  each  other  —  out  of  two  maimed  bodies 
to  make  up  one  which  is  whole,  and  sound,  and 
shared.  You  saw  this  all  the  time  in  hospital. 
A  man  who  had  only  one  leg  would  pal  up  with 
a  man  who  had  only  one  arm.  The  one-armed 
man  would  wheel  the  one-legged  man  about  the 
garden  in  a  chair;  at  meal-times  the  one-legged 
man  would  cut  up  the  one-armed  man's  food  for 
him.  They  had  both  lost  something,  but  by 
pooling  what  was  left  tliey  managed  to  own  a 
complete  body.  By  the  time  the  war  is  ended 
there'll  be  great  hosts  of  helpless  men  who  by 
combining  will  have  learnt  how  to  become  help- 
ful. They'll  establish  a  new  standard  of  very 
simple  and  cheerful  socialism. 

There's  a  point  I  want  to  make  clear  before 
I  forget  it.  All  these  men,  whether  they're  cap- 
turing Hun  dug-outs  at  the  Front  or  taking  pris- 
oner their  own  despair  in  English  hospitals,  are 
perfectly  ordinary  and  normal.  Before  the  war 
they  were  shop-assistants,  cab-drivers,  plumbers, 
lawyers,  vaudeville  artists.  They  were  men  of 
no  heroic  training.  Their  civilian  callings  and 
their  previous  social  status  were  too  various  for 
any  one  to  suppose  that  they  were  heroes  ready- 
made  at  birth.  Something  has  happened  to  them 
since  they  marched  away  in  khaki  —  something 
that  has  changed  them.     They're  as  completely 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  6i 
re-made  as  St.  Paul  was  after  he  had  had  his 
vision  of  the  opening  heavens  on  the  road  to 
Damascus.  They've  brought  their  vision  back 
with  them  to  civilian  life,  despite  the  lost  arms 
and  legs  which  they  scarcely  seem  to  regret; 
their  souls  still  triumph  over  the  body  and  the 
temporal.  As  they  hobble  through  the  streets 
of  London,  they  display  the  same  gay  courage 
that  was  theirs  when  at  zero  hour,  with  a  fifty- 
fifty  chance  of  death,  they  hopped  over  the  top 
for  the  attack. 

Often  at  the  Front  I  have  thought  of  Christ's 
explanation  of  his  own  unassailable  peace  — an 
explanation  given  to  his  disciples  at  the  Last 
Supper,  immediately  before  the  walk  to  Gethsem- 
ane:    "Be  of  good  cheer,  I  have  overcome  the 
world."     Overcomir-;  the  world,  as  I  understand 
it,  is  overcoming  self.     Fear,  in  its  final  analy- 
sis, is  nothing  but  selfishness.    A  man  who  is 
afraid  in  an  attack,  isn't  thinking  of  his  pals  and 
how  quickly  terror  spreads;  he  isn't  thinking  of 
the  glory  which  will  accrue  to  his  regiment  or 
division  if  the  attack  is  a  success;  he  isn't  think- 
ing of  what  he  can  do  to  contribute  to  that  suc- 
cess; he  isn't  thinking  of  the  splendour  of  forcing 
his  spirit  to  triumph  over  weariness  and  nerves 
and  tlie  abominations  that  the  Huns  are  chucking 
at  him.    He's  thinking  merely  of  how  he  can 


M 


m 


-1 


rlH 


ft 


62  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

save  his  worthless  skin  and  conduct  his  entirely 
unimportant  body  to  a  place  where  there  aren't 
any  shells. 

In  London  as  I  saw  the  work-a-day,  uncon- 
scious nobility  of  the  maimed  and  wounded,  the 
words,  "I  have  overcome  the  world,"  took  an 
added  depth.  All  these  men  have  an  "  I-have- 
overcome-the-world "  look  in  their  faces.  It's 
comparatively  easy  for  a  soldier  with  traditions 
and  ideals  at  his  back  to  face  death  calmly;  to 
be  calm  in  the  face  of  life,  as  these  chaps  are, 
takes  a  graver  courage. 

What  has  happened  to  change  them?  These 
disabilities,  had  they  happened  before  the  war, 
would  have  crushed  and  embittered  them.  They 
would  have  been  woes  utterly  and  inconsolably 
unbearable.  Intrinsically  their  physical  disable- 
ments spell  the  same  loss  to-day  that  they  would 
have  in  19 12.  The  attitude  of  mind  in  which 
they  are  accepted  alone  makes  them  seem  less. 
This  attitude  of  mind  or  greatness  of  soul  — 
whatever  you  like  to  call  it  —  was  learnt  in  the 
trenches  where  everything  outward  is  polluted 
and  damnable.  Their  experience  at  the  Front  has 
given  them  what  in  the  Army  language  is  known 
as  "  guts."  "  Guts  "  or  courage  is  an  attitude 
of  mind  towards  calamity  —  an  attitude  of  mind 
which  makes  the  honourable  accomplishing  of 


U 


.^m- 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  63 

duty  more  permanently  satisfying  than  the 
preiervation  of  self.  But  how  did  this  vision 
come  to  these  men?  How  did  they  rid  them- 
selves of  their  civilian  flabbiness  and  ac([uire  it? 
These  questions  are  best  answered  autobiograph- 
ically.  Here  briefly,  is  the  story  of  the  growtli  of 
the  vision  within  myself. 

In  August,  19 1 4,  three  days  after  war  had 
been  declared,  I  sailed  from  Queljec  for  Eng- 
land on  the  first  ship  that  put  out  from  Canada. 
The  trip  had  been  long  planned  —  it  was  not 
undertaken  from  any  patriotic  motive.  My  fam- 
ily, which  included  my  father,  mother,  sister  and 
brother,  had  been  living  in  America  for  eight 
years  and  had  never  returned  to  England  to- 
gether. It  was  the  accomplishing  of  a  dream 
long  cherished,  which  favourable  circumstances 
and  a  sudden  influx  of  money  had  at  last  made 
possible.  We  had  travelled  three  thousand  miles 
from  our  ranch  in  the  Rockies  before  the  war- 
cloud  burst;  obstinacy  and  curiosity  combined 
made  us  go  on,  plus  an  entirely  British  feeling 
that  by  crossing  the  Atlantic  during  the  crisis 
we'd  be  showing  our  contempt  for  the  Germans. 

We  were  only  informed  that  the  ship  was 
going  to  sail  at  the  very  last  moment,  and  went 
aboard  in  the  evening.  The  word  spread  fjuickly 
among  the  crews  of  other  vessels  lying  in  bar- 


ii 


h 
i 

^  > 


I 


II 


64  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

hour;  their  firemen,  keen  to  get  back  to  Eng- 
land and  have  a  whack  at  the  Huns,  tried  to 
board  our  ship,  sometimes  by  a  ruse,  more  often 
by  fighting.  One  saw  some  very  pretty  fist 
work  that  night  as  he  leant  across  the  rail,  won- 
dering whether  he'd  ever  reach  the  other  side. 
There  were  rumours  of  German  warships  wait- 
ing to  catch  us  in  mid-ocean.  Somewhere  to- 
wards midnight  the  would-be  stowaways  gave  up 
their  attempt  to  force  a  passage;  they  squatted 
with  their  backs  against  the  sheds  along  the 
quayside,  singing  patriotic  songs  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  mouth-organs,  confidently  asserting 
that  they  were  sons  of  the  bull-dog  breed  and 
never,  never  would  be  slaves.  It  was  all  very 
amusing;  war  seemed  to  be  the  finest  of  excuses 
for  an  outburst  of  high  spirits. 

Next  morning,  when  we  came  on  deck  for  a 
breath  of  air  the  vessel  was  under  way ;  all  hands 
were  hard  at  work  disguising  her  with  paint  of 
a  sombre  colour.  Here  and  there  you  saw  an 
officer  in  uniform,  who  had  not  yet  had  time  to 
unpack  his  mufti.  The  next  night,  and  for  the 
rest  of  the  voyage,  all  port-holes  were  darkened 
and  we  ran  without  lights.  An  atmosphere  of 
suspense  became  omnipresent.  Rumours  spread 
like  wild-fire  of  sinkings,  victories,  defeats, 
marching    and    countermarchings,    engagements 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  65 

on  land  and  water.  With  the  uncanny  and  un- 
accustomed sense  of  danger  we  began  to  realise 
that  we,  as  individuals,  were  involved  in  a  Euro- 
pean war. 

As  we  got  about  among  the  passengers  wc 
found  that  the  usual  spirit  of  comradeship  which 
marks  an  Atlantic  voyage,  was  noticeably  lack- 
ing. Every  person  regarded  every  other  person 
with  distrust,  as  though  he  might  be  a  spy.  Peo- 
ple were  secretive  as  to  their  calling  and  the 
purpose  of  their  voyage;  little  by  little  we  dis- 
covered that  many  of  them  were  government 
officials,  but  that  most  were  professional  soldiers 
rushing  back  in  the  hope  that  they  might  be  in 
time  to  join  the  British  Expeditionary  Force. 
Long  before  we  had  guessed  that  a  world  tragedy 
was  impending,  they  had  judged  war's  advent 
certain  from  its  shadow,  and  had  come  from  the 
most  distant  parts  of  Canada  that  they  might 
be  ready  to  embark  the  moment  the  cloud  burst. 
Some  of  them  were  travelling  with  their  wives 
and  children.  What  struck  me  as  wholly  un- 
reasonable was  that  these  professional  soldiers 
and  their  families  were  the  least  disturbed  people 
on  board.  I  used  to  watch  them  as  oiie  might 
watch  condemned  prisoners  in  their  cells.  Their 
apparent  indifference  was  unintelligible  to  me. 
They  lived  their  daily  present,  contented  and  un- 


i 


CO    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

unruffled,  just  as  if  it  were  going  to  be  their 
present  always.  I  accused  them  of  tjeing  lacking 
in  imagination.  I  saw  them  lying  dead  on 
kittlefields.  I  saw  them  dragging  on  into  old 
age,  with  the  spine  of  life  broken,  mutilated  and 
mauled.  I  saw  them  in  desperately  tight  comers, 
fighting  in  ruined  villages  with  sword  and  bay- 
onet. But  they  joked,  laughed,  played  with  their 
kiddies  and  seemed  to  have  no  realisation  of  the 
horrors  to  which  they  were  going.  There  was  a 
■world- famous  aviator,  who  had  gone  Ijack  on  his 
marriage  promise  that  he  would  aliandon  his 
aerial  adventures.  He  was  hurrying  to  join  the 
French  Flying  Corps.  He  and  his  young  wife 
used  to  play  deck-tennis  every  morning  as  light- 
heartedly  as  if  they  were  travelling  to  Europe  for 
a  lark.  In  my  many  accusations  of  these  men's 
indifference  I  never  accused  them  of  courage. 
Courage,  as  I  had  thought  of  it  up  to  that  time, 
was  a  grim  affair  of  teeth  set,  sad  eyes  and 
clenched  hands  —  the  kind  of  "  My  head  is 
bloody  but  unbowed "  determination  described 
in  Henley's  poem. 

When  we  had  arrived  safe  in  port  we  were 
held  up  for  some  time.  A  tug  came  out,  bring- 
ing a  lot  of  artificers  who  at  once  set  to  work 
tearing  out  the  fittings  of  the  ship  that  she  might 
be  converted  into  a  transport.    Here  again  I 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  67 

witnessed  a  contrast  between  the  soldierly  and 
the  civilian  attitude.  The  civilians,  with  their 
easily  postponed  engagements,  fumed  and  fretted 
at  the  delay  in  getting  ashore.  The  ofBcers  took 
the  inconvenience  with  philosophical  good- 
humour.  While  the  panelling  and  electric-light 
fittings  were  being  ripped  out.  they  sat  among  the 
debris  and  played  cards.  There  was  heaps  of 
time  for  their  appointment  —  it  was  only  with 
wounds  and  Death.  To  me,  as  a  civilian,  their 
coobiess  was  almost  irritating  and  totally  incom- 
prehensible. I  found  a  new  explanation  by  say- 
ing that,  after  all,  war  was  their  professional 
chance  —  in  fact,  exactly  what  a  shortage  in  the 
flour-market  was  to  a  man  who  had  quantities 
of  wheat  on  hand. 

That  night  we  travelled  to  London,  arriving 
about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  There  was 
little  to  denote  that  a  European  war  was  on, 
except  that  people  were  a  trifle  more  animated 
and  cheerful.  The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  we 
motored  round  Hampstead  Heath.  The  Heath 
was  as  usual,  gay  with  pleasure-seekers  and 
the  streets  sedate  with  church-goers.  On  Mon- 
day, when  we  tried  to  transact  business  and  ex- 
change money,  we  found  that  there  were  hitches 
and  difliculties ;  it  was  more  as  though  a  window 
had  been  left  open  and  a  certain  untidiness  had 


^^  1: 


hI 


II 


68  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

resulted.  "It  will  be  all  right  to-morrow," 
everybody  said.  "  Business  as  usual,"  and  thfy 
nodded. 

But  as  the  days  passed  it  wasn't  all  right. 
Kitchener  began  to  call  for  his  army.     Belgium 

as  invaded.  We  began  to  hear  about  atroci- 
M.  s.  There  were  rumours  of  defeat,  which 
ceased  to  be  rumours,  an<l  of  grey  hordes  press- 
ing towards  Paris.  It  began  to  dawn  on  the 
most  optimistic  of  us  that  the  littk*  British  Army 
—  the  Old  Contemptibles  —  hadn't  gone  to 
France  on  a  holiday  jaunt. 

The  sternness  of  the  hour  was  brought  home 
to  me  by  one  obscure  incident.  Straggling 
across  Trafalgar  Square  in  mufti  and  com- 
manded by  a  sergeant  came  a  little  procession  of 
recruits.  They  were  roughly  dressed  men  of 
the  navvy  ar.J  the  coster  class.  All  save  one  car- 
ried under  his  arm  his  worldly  possessions, 
wrapped  in  cloth,  brown-paper  or  anything  that 
had  come  handy.  The  sergeant  kept  on  giving 
them  the  step  and  angrily  imploring  them  to  pick 
it  up.  At  the  tail  of  the  procession  followed 
a  woman ;  she  also  carried  a  packap^e. 

They  turned  into  the  Strand,  passed  by  Char- 
ing Cross  and  branched  off  to  the  right  down  a 
lane  to  the  Embankment.  At  the  point  where 
they  left  the  Strand,  the  man  without  a  parcel 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  69 

ipoke  to  the  sergeant  and  fell  out  of  the  rankt. 
He  laid  his  clumsy  hand  on  the  woman's  arm; 
she  set  down  on  the  pavement  the  parcel  she  had 
been  carrying.  There  they  stood  for  a  full 
minute  gazing  at  each  other  dumbly,  oblivious  to 
the  passing  crowds.  She  wasn't  pleasing  to  look 
at  —  just  a  slum  woman  with  draggled  skirts,  a 
shawl  gathered  tightly  round  her  and  a  mildewed 
kind  of  bonnet.  He  was  no  more  attractive  —  a 
hulking  Samson,  perhaps  a  day-labourer,  who 
whilst  he  had  loved  her,  had  probably  beaten  her. 
They  had  come  to  the  hour  of  parting,  and  there 
they  stood  in  the  London  sunshine  inarticulate 
after  life  together.  He  glanced  after  the  proces- 
sion; it  was  two  hundred  yards  away  by  now. 
Stooping  awkwardly  for  the  burden  which  she 
had  carried  for  him,  in  a  shame-faced  kind  of 
way  he  kissed  her;  then  broke  from  her  to  follow 
his  companions.  She  watched  him  forlornly, 
her  hands  hanging  empty.  Never  once  did  he 
look  back  as  he  departed.  Catching  up.  he  took 
his  place  in  the  ranks ;  they  rounded  a  comer  and 
were  lost.  Her  eyes  were  quite  dry;  her  jaw 
sagged  stupidly.  For  some  seconds  she  stared 
after  the  way  he  had  gone  —  her  man!  Then 
she  wandered  off  as  one  who  had  no  purpose. 

Wounded  men  commenced  to  appear  in  the 
streets.    You  saw  them  in  restaurants,  looking 


i:i 


iiiL 


i: 


M 


m 


m 


IBS 


M 


'  i 


70  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

happy  and  emtxirrasscd.  bcinff  paraded  by  proud 
families.  One  day  I  met  two  m  my  tailor'i 
»hop  —  one  had  an  arm  in  a  sling,  the  other's 
head  had  been  seared  by  a  bullet.  It  was  whis- 
pered that  they  were  officers  who  had  '*  got  it " 
nt  Mons.  A  thrill  ran  through  me  —  a  thrill  of 
hero-worship. 

At  the  Empire  Music  Hall  in  Leicester  Square, 
tragedy  bared  its  broken  teeth  and  mouthed  at 
me.  We  had  reached  the  stage  at  which  we  had 
become  intensely  patriotic  by  the  singing  of 
songs.  A  beautiful  actress,  who  had  no  thought 
of  doing  "  her  bit  "  herself,  attired  as  Britannia, 
with  a  colossal  Union  Jack  for  background,  came 
before  the  footlights  and  sang  the  recruiting  song 
of  the  moment, 

••  We  don't  want  to  lose  you 
But  we  think  you  ought  to  go." 

Some  one  else  recited  a  poem  calculated  to  shame 
men  into  immediate  enlistment,  two  lines  of 
which  I  remember: 

•'  I  wasn't  among  the  first  to  go 
But  I  went,  thank  God,  I  went." 

The  effect  of  such  urging  was  to  make  me 
angry.  I  wasn't  going  to  be  rushed  into  khaki 
on  the  spur  of  an  emotion  picked  up  in  a  music- 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  71 

hall  I  pictured  the  comfortat)le  gentlemen, 
beyond  the  militjiry  age,  who  had  written  theiie 
heroic  tauntii,  had  gnined  reputation  t)y  to  doing, 
and  all  the  time  sat  at  home  in  suUirt)an  security. 
The  peoj»le  who  recited  or  sung  their  effusions, 
made  me  equally  angry;  they  were  making 
sham-patriotism  a  means  of  livelihood  and  had 
no  intention  of  doing  their  part.  All  the  world 
that  by  reason  of  age  or  sex  wan  exempt  from  the 
ordeal  of  battle,  was  shoving  behind  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  that  was  not  exempt,  using  the 
yoiinger  men  as  a  shield  against  his  own  terror 
and  at  the  same  time  calling  them  cowarf' 
That  was  how  I  felt.  I  told  mvself  that  5  I 
went  —  and  the  •/  seemed  very  remot''  -  ^ 
should  go  on  a  conviction  and  not  bec?ii '-  '  i 
shoving.  They  could  hand  me  as  manv  whit  • 
feathers  as  they  liked,  I  wasn't  going  to  I  •  swe^ ' 
tway  by  the  general  hysteria.  Besides,  win  re 
would  be  the  sense  in  joining  ?  Everylxxly  sa  '' 
that  our  fellows  would  be  home  for  Giristmas. 
Our  chaps  who  were  out  there  ought  to  know; 
in  writing  home  they  promised  it  themselves. 

The  next  part  of  the  music-hall  performance 
was  moving  pictures  of  the  Germans'  march  into 
Brussds.  I  was  in  the  Promenade  and  had 
noticed  a  Belgian  soldier  being  made  much  of  by 
a  group  of  Tommies.     He  was  a  queer  looking 


I  i; 

i  i-v 


n 


:4 


1  .  ! 


72  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

fellow,  with  a  dazed  expression  and  eyes  that 
seemed  to  focus  on  some  distant  horror ;  his  uni- 
form was  faded  and  torn  —  evidently  it  had 
seen  active  service.  I  wondered  by  what  strange 
fortune  he  had  been  conveyed  from  the  brutali- 
ties of  invasion  to  this  gilded,  plush-seated  sensa- 
tion-palace in  Leicester  Square. 

I  watched  the  screen.  Through  ghastly 
photographic  boulevards  the  spectre  conquer- 
ors marched.  They  came  on  endlessly,  as 
though  somewhere  out  of  sight  a  human  dam 
had  burr.1,  whose  deluge  would  never  be  stopped. 
I  tried  to  catch  the  expressions  of  the  men, 
wondering  whether  this  or  that  or  the  next  had 
contributed  his  toll  of  violated  women  and 
butchered  children  to  the  list  of  Hun  atrocities. 
Suddenly  the  silence  of  the  theatre  was  startled 
by  a  low,  infuriated  growl,  followed  by  a  shriek 
which  was  hardly  human.  I  have  since  heard 
the  same  kind  of  sounds  when  the  stumps  of  the 
mutilated  are  being  dressed  and  the  pain  has  be- 
come intolerable.  Everybody  turned  in  their 
iitats  —  gazing  through  the  dimness  to  a  point 
in  the  Promenade  near  to  where  I  was.  The 
ghosts  on  the  screen  were  forgotten.  The  faked 
patriotism  of  the  songs  we  had  listened  to  had 
become  a  thing  of  naught.    Through  the  welter 


I  ml 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  73 

of  bombast,  excitement  and  emotion  we  had 
grounded  on  reality. 

The  Belgian  soldier,  in  his  tattered  uniform, 
was  leaning  out,  as  though  to  bridge  the  space 
that  divided  him  from  his  ghostly  tormentors. 
The  dazed  look  was  gone  from  his  expression 
and  his  eyes  were  focussed  in  the  fixity  of  a  cruel 
purpose  — to  kill,  and  kill,  and  kill  the  smoke- 
grey  hordes  of  tyrants  so  long  as  his  life  should 
last.  He  shrieked  imprecations  at  them,  calling 
upon  God  and  snatching  epithets  from  the  gutter 
in  his  furious  endeavour  to  curse  them.  He  was 
dragged  away  by  friends  in  khaki,  overpowered, 
struggling,  smothered  but  still  cursing. 

I  learnt  afterwards  that  he,  with  his  mother 
and  two  brothers,  had  been  the  proprietors  of 
one  of  the  best  hotels  in  Brussels.  Both  his 
brothers  had  been  called  to  arms  and  were  dead. 
Anything  might  have  happened  to  his  mother  — 
he  had  not  heard  from  her.  He  himself  had 
escaped  in  the  general  retreat  and  was  going  back 
to  France  as  interpreter  with  an  English  regi- 
ment. He  had  lost  everything;  it  was  the  sight 
of  his  ruined  hotel,  flung  by  chance  on  the  screen, 
that  had  provoked  his  demonstration.  He  was 
dead  to  every  emotion  except  revenge  —  to  ac- 
complish which  he  was  returning. 


hi 

t 

Ml 


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:   a 
f   * 

r 


iM 


iMtTiiii    r>i   1 1 


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i  ' 


74  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

The  moving-pfcturcs  still  went  on;  nobody 
had  the  heart  to  see  more  of  them.  The  house 
rose,  fumbling  for  its  coats  and  hats;  the  place 
was  soon  empty. 

Just  as  I  was  leaving  l  recruiting  sergeant 
touched  my  elbow,  "  Going  to  enlist,  sonny?  " 

I  shook  my  head.  "  Not  to-night.  Want  to 
think  it  over." 

"  You  will,"  he  said.  "  Don't  wait  too  long. 
We  can  make  a  man  of  you.  If  I  get  you  in  my 
squad  I'll  give  you  hell." 

I  didn't  doubt  it. 

I  don't  know  that  I'm  telling  these  events  in 
their  proper  sequence  as  they  led  up  to  the  grow- 
ing of  the  vision.  That  doesn't  matter  —  the 
point  is  that  the  conviction  was  daily  strengthen- 
ing that  I  was  needed  out  there.  The  thought 
was  grotesque  that  I  could  ever  make  a  soldier 
—  I  whose  life  from  the  day  of  leaving  college 
had  been  almost  wholly  sedentary.  In  fights  at 
school  I  could  never  hurt  the  other  boy  until  by 
pain  he  had  stung  me  into  madness.  Moreover, 
my  idea  of  war  was  grimly  graphic;  I  thought 
it  consisted  of  a  choice  between  inserting  a  bay- 
onet into  some  one  else's  stomach  or  being  your- 
self the  recipient.  I  had  no  conception  of  the 
long-distance,  anonymous  killing  that  marks  our 
modern  methods,  and  is  in  many  respects  more 


*5'l.a»3M^*g«i..V:^j?^'  ■  ■  ■^mB^:^'mmm^JS^.  .H 


rsar 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  75 

truly  awful.  It's  a  fact  that  there  arc  hosts  of 
combatants  who  have  never  once  identified  the 
bodies  of  those  for  whose  death  they  are  per- 
sonally responsible.  My  ideas  of  fighting  were 
all  of  hand-to-hand  encounters  —  the  kind  of 
bloody  fighting  that  rejoiced  the  hearts  of 
pirates.  1  considered  that  it  took  a  brutal  kind 
of  man  to  do  such  work.  For  myself  I  felt 
certain  that,  though  I  got  the  upper-hand  of  a 
fellow  who  had  tried  to  murder  me,  I  should 
never  have  the  callousness  to  return  the  com- 
pliment. The  thought  of  shedding  blood  was 
nausea  ing. 

It  was  partly  to  escape  from  this  atmosphere 
of  tension  that  we  left  London,  and  set  out  on 
a  motor-trip  through  England.  This  trip  had 
figured  largely  in  our  original  plans  before  there 
had  been  any  thought  of  war.  We  wanted  to 
re-visit  the  old  places  that  had  been  the  scenes 
of  our  family-life  and  childhood.  Months  be- 
fore sailing  out  of  Quebec  we  had  studied  guide- 
books, mapping  out  routes  and  hotels.  With 
about  half  a  ton  of  gasolene  on  the  roof  to  guard 
against  contingencies,  we  started. 

Everywhere  we  went,  from  Cornwall  to  the 
North,  men  were  training  and  marching.  All 
the  bridges  and  reservoirs  were  guarded.  Every 
tiniest    village   had    its   recruiting   posters    for 


!       "■ 


m 


f  1 


76  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

Kitchener's  Army.     It  was  a  trip  utterly  differ- 
ent Irom  the  one  wc  had  expected. 

At  Stratford  in  the  tap-room  of  Shakespeare's 
favourite  tavern  I  met  an  exceptional  person 
—  a  man  who  was  afraid,  and  had  the  courage 
to  speak  the  truth  as  millions  at  that  time  felt 
it.  An  American  was  present  —  a  vast  and 
fleshy  man:  a  transatlantic  version  of  Falstaff. 
He  had  just  escaped  from  Paris  and  was  giving 
us  an  account  of  how  he  had  hired  a  car,  had 
driven  as  near  the  fighting-line  as  he  could  get 
and  had  seen  the  wounded  coming  out.  He  had 
risked  the  driver's  life  and  expended  large  sums 
of  money  merely  to  gratify  his  curiosity.  He 
mopped  his  brow  and  told  us  that  he  had  aged 
ten  years  —  folks  in  Philadelphia  would  hardly 
know  him ;  but  it  was  all  worth  it.  The  deUils 
which  he  embroidered  and  dwelt  upon  were 
ghastly.  He  was  particularly  impressed  with 
having  seen  a  man  with  his  nose  oflF.  His  de- 
scription held  us  horrified  and  spell-bound. 

In  the  midst  of  his  oratory  an  officer  entered, 
bringing  with  him  five  nervous  young  fellows. 
They  were  self-conscious,  excited,  over-wrought 
and  belonged  to  the  class  of  the  lawyer's  clerk. 
The  officer  had  evidently  been  working  them  up 
to  the  point  of  enlistment,  and  hoped  to  com- 
plete the  job  that  evening  over  a  sociable  glass. 


H  I5; 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     77 
As  Ms  audience  swelled,  the  fat  man  from  Phila- 
delphia grew  exceedingly  vivid.    When  appealed 
to  by  the  recruiting  officer,  he  confirmed  the 
opmion  that  every  Englishman  of  fighting  age 
should  be  in  France;  that's  where  the  boys  of 
America  would  be  if  their  country  were  in  the 
same   predicament.     Four   out   of  the  five   in- 
tended victims  applauded  this  sentiment  ~  they 
applauded    too    boisterously    for   complete    sin- 
cerity, because  they  felt  that  they  could  do  no 
less.     The  fifth,  a  scholarly,  pale-faced  fellow, 
drew  attention  to  himself  by  his  silence. 

"  You're  going  to  join,  too,  aren't  you  ?  "  the 
recruiting  officer  asked. 

The  pale-faced  man  swallowed.  There  was 
no  doubt  that  he  was  scared.  The  American's 
morbid  details  had  been  enough  to  frighten  any- 
body. He  was  so  frightened  that  he  had  the 
pluck  to  tell  the  truth. 

"I'd  like  to,"  he  hesitated,  "but .     IVc 

got  an  imagination.  I  should  see  things  as  twice 
as  horrible.  I  should  live  through  every  beastli- 
ness before  it  occurred.  When  it  did  happen  I 
should  turn  coward.  I  should  run  away,  and 
you'd  shoot  me  as  a  deserter.  I'd  like  — not 
yet.  I  can't." 

He  was  the  bravest  man  in  the  tap-room  that 
night.     If   he's   still  alive,   he  probably   wears 


H. 


!^ 


|i 


78  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

decorations.  He  was  afraid,  just  as  every  one 
else  was  afraid:  but  he  wasn't  sufHciently  a 
coward  to  lie  about  his  terror.  His  voice  was 
the  voice  of  millions  at  that  hour. 

A  day  came  when  England's  jeopardy  was 
brought  home  to  her.  I  don't  remember  the 
date,  but  I  remember  it  was  a  Sabbath.  We  had 
pulled  up  before  a  village  post  office  to  get  the 
news;  it  was  pasted  behind  the  window  against 
the  glass.  We  read,  "  Boulofjnc  has  fallen." 
Th^  news  was  false;  but  it  wasn't  contradicted 
till  next  day.  Meanwhile,  in  that  quiet  village, 
over  and  above  the  purring  of  the  engine,  we 
heard  the  beat  o£  Death's  wings  across  the 
Channel  —  a  gigantic  vulture  approaching  which 
would  pick  clean  of  vifeness  the  bones  of  both 
the  actually  and  the  piritually  dead.  I  knew 
then  for  certain  that  t  was  only  a  matter  of 
time  till  T,  too,  should  l)e  out  there  among  the 
caniage,  "  somewhere  in  France."  I  felt  like 
a  rabbit  in  the  last  of  th  -standing  corn,  when  a 
field  is  in  the  harvesting.  There  was  no  escape 
—  I  could  hear  the  scythes  01  an  inexorable  duty 
cutting  closer. 

After  about  six  weeks  in  England,  I  travelled 
back  to  New  York  with  my  family  to  complete 
certain  financial  obligations  and  to  set  about  the 
winding  up  of  my  affairs.     I  said  nothing  to 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  79 

any  one  as  to  my  purpose.  The  reason  for  my 
silence  is  now  obvious:  I  didn't  want  to  commit 
myself  to  other  people  and  wished  to  leave  my- 
self a  loop-hole  for  retracting  the  promises  I  had 
made  my  conscience.  There  were  times  when 
my  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating,  appalled  by  the 
future  which  I  was  rapidly  approaching.  My 
vivid  imagination  —  which  from  childhood  has 
been  as  much  a  hindrance  as  a  help  —  made  me 
foresee  myself  in  every  situation  of  horror  — 
gassed,  broken,  distributed  over  the  landscape. 
Luckily  it  made  me  foresee  the  worst  horror  — 
the  ignominy  of  living  perhaps  fifty  years  with 
a  self  who  was  dishonoured  and  had  sunk  be- 
neath his  own  best  standards.  Of  course  there 
were  also  moments  of  e.xaltation  when  the  boy- 
spirit  of  adventure  loomed  large;  it  seemed 
splendidly  absurd  that  I  was  going  to  be  a  soldier, 
a  companion-in-arms  of  those  lordly  chaps  who 
had  fought  at  Senlac,  sailed  with  Drake  and 
save(!  the  day  for  freedom  at  Mons.  Whether 
I  was  exalted  or  depressed,  a  power  stronger 
than  myself  urged  me  to  work  feverishly  to  the 
end  that,  at  the  first  opportunity,  I  might  lay 
aside  my  occupation,  with  all  my  civilian  obliga- 
tions discharged. 

When  that  time  came,  my  first  difficulty  was 
in  communicating  my  decision  to  my  family ;  my 


8o  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

second,  in  jetting  accepted  in  Canada.  I  was 
perhaps  more  ignorant  than  most  people  about 
things  military.  I  had  not  the  slightest  knowl- 
edge  as  to  the  functions  of  the  different  arms  of 
the  service;  infantry,  artillery,  engineers,  A.  S. 
C  —  they  all  connoted  just  as  much  and  at 
little.  I  had  no  qualifications.  I  had  never 
handled  fire-arms.  My  solitary  useful  accom- 
plishment was  that  I  could  ride  a  horse.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  no  man  ever  was  less  fitted 
for  the  profession  of  killing.  I  was  painfully  con- 
scious of  self-ridicule  whenever  I  offered  myself 
for  the  job.  I  offered  myself  several  times  and 
in  different  quarters;  when  at  last  I  was  granted 
a  commission  in  the  Canadian  Field  Artillery  it 
was  by  pure  good-fortune.  I  didn't  even  know 
what  guns  were  used  and,  if  informed,  shouldn't 
have  had  the  least  idea  what  an  eighteen -pounder 
Was.  Nevertheless,  within  seven  months  I  was 
out  in  France,  taking  part  in  an  offensive  which, 
up  to  that  time,  was  the  most  ambitious  of  the 
entire  war. 

From  New  York  I  went  to  Kingston  in 
Ontario  to  present  myself  for  training;  an  of- 
ficers' class  had  just  started,  in  which  I  had  been 
ordered  to  enrol  myself.  It  was  the  depth  of 
winter  —  an  unusually  hard  winter  even  for  that 
part  of  Canada.     My  first  glimpse  of  the  Tete  du 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  8i 

Pont  Btrracki  was  of  a  square  of  low  buildings^ 
very  much  like  the  square  of  a  Hudson  Bay  Fort 
The  parade  ground  was  ankle-deep  in  trampled 
•now  and  mud.  A  bleak  wind  was  blowing  from 
oflf  the  river.  Squads  of  embryo  officers  were 
being  drilled  by  hoarse-voiced  sergeants.  The 
officers  looked  cold,  and  cowed,  and  foolish;  the 
sergeants  employed  ruthlessly  the  age-old  army 
sarcasms  and  made  no  effort  to  disguise  their  dis- 
gust for  these  officers  and  "temporary  gentle- 
men." 

I  was  directed  to  an  office  where  a  captain  sat 
writing  at  a  desk,  while  an  orderly  waited  rigidly 
at  attention.  The  captain  looked  up  as  I  entered, 
took  in  my  spats  and  velour  hat  with  an  impatient 
glance,  and  continued  with  his  writing.  When  I 
got  an  opportunity  I  presented  my  letter;  he  read 
it  through  irritably. 

"  Any  previous  military  experience?  " 

"  None  at  all." 

"  Then  how  d'you  expect  to  pass  out  with  this 
class?  It's  been  going  for  nearly  two  weeks 
already?" 

Again,  as  though  he  had  dismissed  me  from 
his  mind,  he  returned  to  his  writing.  From  a 
miliUry  standpoint  I  knew  that  I  was  justly  a 
figure  of  naught ;  but  I  also  felt  that  he  was  rub- 
bing it  in  a  trifle  hard.    I  was  too  recent  a  recruit 


iiii 


8j  the  glory  of  the  TRENCHES 

to  have  loit  my  civilian  self-respect.  At  last, 
after  a  period  of  embarrassed  silence,  I  asked, 
•'  What  am  I  to  do?    To  whom  do  I  report  ?  " 

Without  looking  up  he  told  me  to  report  on  the 
parade  jp-ound  at  six  o'clock  the  following  morn- 
ing. When  I  got  back  to  my  hotel,  I  reflected  on 
the  chilliness  of  my  reception.  I  had  taken  no 
credit  to  myself  for  enlisting  — I  knew  that  I 
ought  to  have  joined  months  before.  But  six 
o'clock  1  I  glanced  across  at  the  station,  where 
trains  were  pulling  out  for  New  York;  for  a 
moment  I  was  tempted.  But  not  for  long;  I 
couldn't  trust  the  hotel  people  to  wake  me,  so  I 
went  out  and  purchased  an  alarm  clock. 

That  night  I  didn't  sleep  much.  I  was  up  and 
dressed  by  five-thirty.  I  hid  beneath  the  shadow 
of  a  wall  near  the  barracks  and  struck  matches 
to  look  at  my  watch.  At  ten  minutes  to  six  the 
street  was  full  of  unseen,  hurrying  feet  which 
sounded  ghostly  in  the  darkness.  I  followed 
them  into  the  parade-ground.  The  parade  was 
falling  in.  rolls  were  being  called  by  the  aid  of 
flash-lamps.  I  caught  hold  of  an  officer;  for  all 
I  knew  he  might  have  been  a  General  or  Colonel. 
I  asked  his  advice,  when  I  had  blundered  out  my 
story.  He  laughed  and  said  I  had  better  return 
to  my  hotel;  the  class  was  going  Ki  j^ables  and 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  83 

there  wm  no  one  at  that  hour  to  whom  I  could  re- 
port. 

The  words  of  the  sergeant  at  the  Empire  came 
back  to  me,  *'  And  I'll  give  you  hell  if  I  get  you 
in  my  squad."  I  understood  then:  this  was  *.he 
ftrit  attempt  of  the  Army  to  break  my  heart  —  an 
attempt  often  repeated  and  an  attempt  for  which, 
from  my  present  point  of  vanuge,  I  am  intensely 
grateful.  In  those  days  the  Canadian  Overseas 
Forces  were  comprised  of  volunteers;  it  wasn't 
suAicient  to  express  a  tepid  willingness  to  die  for 
your  country  —  you  had  to  prove  yourself  deter- 
mined and  eligible  for  death  through  your  power 
to  endure  hardship. 

When  I  had  been  medically  examined,  passed 
as  fit,  had  donned  a  uniform  and  commenced  my 
training,  I  learnt  what  the  enduring  of  hardship 
was.  No  experience  on  active  service  has 
equalled  the  humiliation  and  severity  of  those  first 
months  ui  soldiering.  We  were  sneered  at, 
cleaned  stables,  groomed  horses,  rode  stripped 
saddle  for  twelve  miles  at  the  trot,  attended  lec- 
tures, stutlied  till  past  midnight  and  were  up  on 
first  parade  at  six  o'clock.  No  previous  civilian 
efficiency  or  prominence  stood  us  in  any  stead. 
We  started  robbed  of  all  importance,  and  only 
gained  a  new  importance  by  our  power  to  hang 


"fr-.ft'i '. 


*!  -rx 


MKaOCOfY   RISOIUTION   TI$T   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


Li 


ISi 


■  2.2 
2.0 

1.8 


150 

154      |Jj2 

■  3.6 


^    APPLIED  IIVMGE 


Inc 


1653   East   Main  Street 

Rochester.   Ne»  York        14609       USA 

(716)   482  -  0300  -  Phone 

(716)  288 -5989 -Fox 


«4    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
on  and  to  develop  a  new  efficiency  as  soldiers. 
When  men    went  sick  "  they  were  labelled  scrim- 
shankers  and  struck  oflf  the  course.    It  was  an 
offence  to  let  your  body  interfere  with  your  duty  ; 

cau^^ht  cold  in  Kingston,  what  would  he  not  catch 
m  the  trenches?  Very  many  went  down  under 
the  physical  ordeal;  of  the  class  that  started.  I 
don  t  think  more  than  a  third  passed.  The  luke- 
warm soldier  and  the  pink-tea  hero,  who  simply 

choked  off.    It  was  a  test  of  pluck,  even  more 

han  of  strength  or  intelligence  -  the  same  test 

that  a  man  -vould  be  subjected  to  all  the  time  at 

i!    uT'u     "  ^  "^"'^  '^  '°''^^  out  the  fellows 
who  had  "guts." 

"Guts  "  isn't  a  particularly  polite  word,  but 
snIenT.  '  — .  increasingly  to  appreciate  its 
splendid  significance.  The  possessor  of  this 
much  coveted  quality  is  the  kind  of  idiot  who, 

"w!"*"  '^"  '^^'  *''*  '"I'tten  off 
Will  fight  upon  his  stumps." 

The  Tommies,  whom  we  were  going  to  com- 
mand, would  be  like  that;  if  we  weren't  like  it 
we  wouldn't  be  any  good  as  officers.    This  Ar^ 
tillery  School  had  a  violent  wav  of  sifting  cut 
a  mans  moral  worth;  you  hadn't  much  conceit 


III 
hi 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  85 
left  by  the  end  of  it.  I  had  not  felt  myself  so 
paltry  since  the  day  when  I  was  left  at  my  first 
boarding-school  in  knickerbockers. 

After  one  had  qualified  and  been  appointed  to  a 
battery,  there  was  still  difficulty  in  getting  to 
England.  I  was  lucky,  and  went  over  early  with 
a  draft  of  officers  who  had  been  cabled  for  as  re- 
inforcements. I  had  been  in  England  a  bare 
three  weeks  when  my  name  was  posted  as  due  to 
go  to  France. 

How  did  I  feel?  Nervous,  of  course,  but  also 
intensely  eager.  I  may  have  been  afraid  of 
wounds  and  death  — I  don't  remember;  I  was 
certainly  nothing  like  as  afraid  as  I  had  been 
before  I  wore  uniform.  My  chief  fear  was 
that  I  would  be  afraid  and  might  show  it.  Like  ' 
the  pale-faced  chap  in  the  tap-room  at  Stratford, 
I  had  fleeting  glimpses  of  myself  being  shot  as  a 
deserter. 

At  this  point  something  happened  which  at 
least  proved  to  me  that  I  had  made  moral 
progress.  I'd  finished  my  packing  and  was  doing 
a  last  rush  round,  when  I  caught  in  large  letter- 
ing on  a  newsboard  the  heading,  "peace 
RUMOURED."  Before  I  realised  what  had  hap- 
pened I  was  crying.  I  was  furious  with  disap- 
pointment. If  the  war  should  end  before  I  got 
*^ere I    On  buying  a  paper  I  assured  my- 


li  ! 


ill 


m 


86    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

sdlf  that  such  a  disasttr  was  quite  improbable. 

clTT  "?'"•  """"  •*"  '«P-achful  memory 
came  of  another  occasion  when  I  had  been  scared 
by  a  headlme,  "  BoulogHe  Has  Fallen."  I  had 
been  scared  les,  I  might  be  needed  at  that  time  • 
nmv  I  was  pan.cstricken  lest  I  might  arrive  to,; 
iate.    Ihere  was  a  change  in  me;  somethine 

I  C  I'      ."    Y  ""'"^-'"P  *™"g'>  England 

an  hrop.st,  who  might  come  to  the  help  of  the 
Allies  and  m.ght  not.  Now  all  I  asked  was  to  b^ 
considered  worthy  to  do  my  infinitesimal  "bit" 

ImI^I       7  °'''  '°""'*^  "'"^  hallucinations, 
and  had  come  to  respect  myself  in  a  very  humble 

fash,on  not  for  what  I  was.  but  for  the  cause  in 

rt,    T  J"  T'"""'  '°  "K*"-    The  knowledge 
that  I  belonged  to  the  physically  fit  contribute 

fo™  rH??'^  °'  ""''''  ^^°''  I  «<"«  a  uni- 
form I  had  had  the  morbid  fear  that  I  might  not 

be  up  to  standard.    And  then  the  unifo,^!    ? 

and  the  cleaner  honour.     It  hadn't  been  paid  for  • 

.t  wouldn't  be  paid  for  till  I  had  lived  in  the 

enches.     I  was  childishly  anxious  to  earn  my 

nght  to  wear  ,t.     I  had  said  "  Good-bye  "  to  my- 

I  thmk  that  was  the  reason  for  the  difference  of 


I 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  87 
spirit  in  which  I  read  the  two  headhnes.  We've 
all  gone  through  the  same  spiritual  gradations 
we  men  who  have  got  to  the  Front.  None  of  us 
know  how  to  express  our  conversion.  All  we 
know  is  that  from  being  little  circumscribed 
egoists,  we  have  swamped  our  identities  in  a 
magnanmious  crusade.  The  venture  looked  fatal 
at  first;  but  in  losing  the  whole  world  we  have 
gained  our  own  souls. 

On  a  beautiful  day  in  late  summer  I  sailed  for 
France.  England  faded  out  like  a  dream  be- 
hind Through  the  haze  in  mid-Channel  a  hospi- 
tal ship  came  racing;  on  her  sides  were  blazoned 
the  scarlet  cross.  The  next  time  I  came  to  Eng- 
land  I  might  travel  on  that  racing  ship.  The 
truth  sounded  like  a  lie.  It  seemed  far  more  true 
that  I  was  going  on  my  annual  pleasure  trip  to  the 
lazy  cities  of  romance. 

The  port  at  which  we  disembarked  was  cheery 
and  almost  normal.  One  saw  a  lot  of  khaki 
mmghng  with  sky-blue  tiger-men  of  France 
Apart  from  that  one  wottV*  scarcely  have  guessed 
that  the  greatest  war  i:.  the  world's  history  was 
raging  not  more  than  fifty  miles  away.  I  slept 
the  night  at  a  comfortable  hotel  on  the  quay- 
side. There  was  no  apparent  shortage;  I  got 
everything  that  I  requirefl.  Next  day  I  boarded 
a  train  which,  I  was  told,  would  carry  me  to  the 


I  h 


I 

!  ■  ! 


88    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
Front.     We  puffed  along  in  a  leisurely  sc  -t  of 
way.    The  engineer  seemed  to  halt  whenever  he 
had  a  mind;  no  matter  where  he  halted,  grubby 
children  miraculously  appeared  and  ran  along  the 
bank,  demanding  from  Monsieur  Englccshman 
ceegarettcs     and  "  beescuits."    Towards  even- 
ing  we  pulled  up  at  a  little  town  where  we  had 
a  most  excellent  meal.     No  hint  of  war  yet 
^ight  came  down  and  we  found  that  our  carriage 
had  no  hghts.     It  must  have  been  nearing  dawn 
when  I  was  wakened  by  the  distant  thunder  of 
g^ns.     I    crouched    in    my    corner,    cold    and 
cramped,  trying  to  visualise  the  terror  of  it     I 
asked  myself  whether  I  was  afraid.     -  Not  of 
Death,"  I  told  myself.     "  But  of  being  a fa^' 
—  yes,  most  horribly.' 
At  five  o'clock  we  halted  at  a  junction,  where 

s^ndstill     Tommies  m  steel  helmets  and  mud- 
died to  the  eyes  were  swarming  out  onto  the 

r!!,-  J*",'^  '°°''*^  '""^'^  ■""'  »i*  their 
fanned  cheeks  and  haggard  eyes.  I  felt  how  im- 
practical I  was  as  I  watched  them -how  ill- 
suited  for  campaigning.  They  were  making  the 
most  of  their  respite  from  travelling,  lome 
were  budding  little  fires  between  the  tL  to  do 
their  cooking -their  utensils  were  bayonets  and 
old  tomato  cans;  others  were  collecting  water 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES    89 
from  the  exhaust  of  an  engine  and  shavinR.    I 

tL  T/  •"■1  ':  ■'•'"''''''   ''^  "'"•"'ad 
shaving         '°'""'  "^"^  '""""^'^  "•«'  ^«'  ^X^O"' 

Lr  7m  """^  '°°'''"ff  Wlows,  with  flaxen 
hair  and  olue  eyes,  who  seemed  to  be  thanking 
God  every  mmute  with  smiles  that  they  were  o„t 
of  danger  and  on  our  side  of  the  line.  Late  in 
the  afternoon  the  engine  jumped  the  rails;  we 

CI  ection  of  wh.ch  was  sketchily  indicated.  We 
found  some  Australians  with  a  transport-wagon 
and  persuaded  them  .0  help  us  with  our  baX 
I  nad  been  pouring  heavily,  but  the  cloudshad 
dispersed  and  a  rainbow  spanned  the  sky.  1 ,00k 
It  for  a  sign. 

After  trudging  about  six  miles,  we  arrived  at 

TJ'^^.u        °""''  """  '*  ^"^  o"'  °f  food  and 
that  all  the  terns  were  occupied.    We  stretched 

our  sleeping-bags  on  the  ground  and  went  to  bed 

supperless.     We  had  had  no  food  all  day.     Next 

rr^^'"-,"*",""'  '°"  """  *'  ""Sht  to  jump  an 
ammunition-lorry,    if    we   wanted    to    get    ,ny 

further  on  our  journey.     Nobody  seemed  to  want 

m  particularly,  and  no  one  could  give  us  the  least 

information  as  to  where  our  division  was.    It 

was  another  lesson,  if  that  were  needed,  of  our 


I 


90    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
total  unimportance.     While  we  were  waitin)?  on 
the  roadside,  an  Australian  brigade  of  artillery 
passed  by.     The  men's  faces  were  dreary  with 
fatigue:    the    gunners    were    dismounted    and 
marched    as    in    a    trance.    The    harness    was 
muddy,  the  steel  rusty,  the  horses  lean  and  dis- 
couraged.    We  understood  that  they  were  pull- 
mg  out  from  an  oflfensive  in  which  they  had  re- 
ceived a  bad  cutting  up.     To  my  overstrained 
imagmation  it  seemed  that  the  men  had  the  vision 
of  death  in  their  eyes. 

Presently  we  spotted  a  lorry-driver  who  had 
what  George  Robey  would  call,  "  a  kind  and  gen-' 
erous  face."  We  took  advantage  of  him.  for 
once  havmg  persuaded  him  to  give  us  a  lift,  we 
froze  onto  him  and  made  him  cart  us  alx)ut  the 
country  all  day.  We  kept  him  kind  and  gen- 
erous. I  regret  to  say,  by  buying  him  wine  at  far 
too  many  estaminets. 

Towards  evening  the  thunder  of  the  guns  had 
swelled  into  an  ominous  roar.  We  passed 
through  villages  disfigured  by  shell-fire.  Civil- 
ians became  more  rare  and  more  aged.  Cattle 
disappeared  utterly  from  the  landscape;  fields 
were  furrowed  with  abandoned  trenches,  in  front 
of  which  hung  entanglements  of  wire.  Mounted 
orderlies  splashed  along  sullen  roads  at  an  im- 
patient trot.     Here  and  there  we  came  across  im- 


m 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  91 
proviscd  bivouacs  of  infantry.  Far  away 
a;rain.st  the  horizon  towards  which  wc  travelled 
I  lun  flares  and  rockets  were  going  up.  I  lopeless 
stoicism,  unutterable  desolation  —  that  was  my 
first  impression. 

The  landscape  was  getting  increasingly  muddy 
—  It  became  a  sea  of  mud.     Despatch-riders  on 
motor-bikes    travelled    wari!y.    with    their    feet 
dragging    to    save    themselves    from     falling 
Everything   was    splashed   with   filth   and   cor- 
ruption; one  marvelled  at  the  cleanness  of  the 
sky.     Trees  were  blasted,  and  seemed  to  be  sink- 
ing out  of  sight  in  this  war-created  Slough  of 
Despond.     We  came  to  the  brow  of  a  hill ;  in  the 
valley  was  something  that  I  recognised.     The 
last  time  I  had  seen  it  was  in  an  etching  in  a 
shop  window  in  Newark.  New  Jersey.     It  was 
a  town,  from  the  midst  of  whose  battered  ruins 
a  splintered  tower  soared  against  the  sky.     Uan- 
mg  far  out  from  the  tower,  so  that  it  seemed  she 
must  drop   was  a  statue  of  the  Virgin  with  the 
Christ  m  her  arms.     It  was  a  superstition  with 
the  French,  I  remembered,  that  so  long  as  she 
did  not  fall,  things  would  go  well  with  the  Allies 
As  we  watched,  a  shell  screamed  over  the  gap- 
ing roofs  and  a  .olumn  of  smoke  went   up 
Gehenna,  being  blessed  by  the  infant  Jesus  — 
that  was  what  I  saw. 


It 


93  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

As  we  entered   ,he  streets.   Tommies  more 
polluted  thanmmem  crept  out  from  the  skeletons 
of  houses.     They  leant  listlessly  acainst  saving 
doorways  to  watch  u,  pass,     H  we  asked  fof 
information  as  to  where  our  division  was.  they 
shook  their  heads  stupidly,  too  indifferent  with 
weariness    to    reply.    VVe    found    the    Town 
Mayor;    all    that    he    could    tell    us    was    that 
our  division  wasn't  here  yet.  but  wa,  expected 
any  day -probably  it  was  still  on  the  line  of 
march.    Our    lorry-driver    wa,    growine    im- 
patient.    We  wrote  him  out  a  note  which  would 
explain  his  wanderings,  got  him  to  deposit  us 
near  a  Y^M.  C.  A.  tent,  and  bade  him  an  un- 
cordial  "  Good-bye."     For  the  next  three  nig^s 
we  slept  by  our  wits  and  got  our  food  by  forag! 

There  was  a  Headquarters  near  by  whose 
tetUlionwasintheline.  I  struck  up  a  liaison 
with  Its  officers,  and  at  times  went  into  the 

Runners  would  come  there  at  all  hours  of  the 

F^Lr  -n!"^  '•    ^""^"^  '"^''^^^    f'""   the 

liZ;.,      .*^.r''  "'"^"y  *'"  ^P*"'-    Some- 
toes  they  had  been  gassed;  but  they  all  had  the 

had  din     '^!:T-"''"°"  '°  '"'y  °"-     After  they 
had  delivered  their  message,  they  would  lie  down 

in  the  mud  and  go  to  sleep  like  dogs.    The 


il 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  93 

moment  the  reply  wa.  ready,  they  would  lurch  .0 

heir  reet.  throwinR  off  their  wearine,,.  a,  though 

.were  a  th.nj-  to  be  conquered  and  de,pi,ed.    I 

«"•»     that  I  had  been  taught  at  Kingston. 

There  was  one  officer  at  Battalion  Hea.l,|.ar. 

*"  *'"'■.  "*«"*'■"•  I  <n««red,  was  always  writ- 

mg.  wrmng.  writing.    What  he  was  writing  I 

never  enquired -perhaps  letter,  to  hi,  sw«t- 

.tlvliT  "■  ^'  ''"'"■'  "«""^  how  long  I 
»taye< .  h.  never  «emed  to  have  the  time  to  Lk 

Zk  of  J"  *,"'«'"»"''"-''  biK  man  with  a 
look  of  fate  in  his  eye,.  His  hair  was  black  •  hi, 
face  stern,  and  set,  and  extremely  white     I  re! 

IT    u  T'  "''"'^  *'™  '°"S  "f"  ■"i'lnight 

btr  L*  ""''  """  °'  '"•  •"«•  All  hi, 
brother  officers  were  a,leep,  huddled  like  sack,  ' 

imper,onally  on  the  floor.    At  the  table  in  the 

light  from  the  lamp  ,pi|li„g  over  hi,  neck  an<' 
forehead.  He  may  have  been  praying.  Here- 
called  to  my  mind  the  famous  picture  of  The 
Last  Sleep  of  Argyle.  From  that  moment  I  had 
tne  premonition  that  he  would  .  t  live  lone  A 
month  later  I  learnt  that  he  hao  been  killed  on 
his  next  trip  into  the  trenche,, 

riv^''*'i\'"  "^"^^  °'  **'""S  "y  <'i"«on  ar- 
med and  I  was  attached  to  a  battery.    I  had 


.J 


^    THE  GLORY  OF  TlfV.  TRENCHES 
Karccly  had  time  to  make  the  ac<|uaintancc  of  my 
new  companiors  when  we  pulled  into  my  first 
mttack. 

We  hooked  in  at  dawn  and  set  out  through  a 
dense  white  mist.    The  mist  was  wet  ami  mii^er- 
able.  but  excellent  for  our  puqiosc ;  it  prevented 
us  from  being  spotted  by  enemy  IwUoons  and 
aeroplanes.     We  made  all  the  haste  that  wa* 
possible;  but  in  places  the  roads  were  blocked  by 
other  batteries  moving  into  new  positions.     Wc 
passed  through  the  town  above  which  the  Virjrin 
floated  with  the  infant  Jesus  in  her  arms.     One 
wondered  whether  she  was  really  holding,'  him  out 
to  bless;  her  attitude  might  ecjually  have  been 
thit  of  one  who  was  Hinging  him  down  into  the 
shambles,  disgusted  with  this  travesty  on  reli- 
gion. 

The  other  side  of  the  town  the  ravages  of  war 
were  far  more  marked.  All  the  way  along  the 
roadside  were  clumps  of  little  crosses,  French, 
English,  German,  planted  above  the  hurried 
graves  of  the  brave  fellows  who  had  fallen. 
Ambulances  were  picking  their  way  warily,  re- 
turning with  the  last  night's  toll  of  wounded. 
We  saw  newly  dead  men  and  horses,  pulled  to 
one  side,  who  had  been  caught  in  tlie  darkness 
by  the  enemy's  harassing  fire.  In  places  the 
country  had  holes  the  size  of  quarries,  where 


THE  GLORV  OF  THE  TRENCHES  95 
mines  had  c?fplodcd  and  shells  from  large  calibre 
guns  had  detonated.  Uedlain  was  raging  up 
front;  shells  went  screaming  over  us,  seeking 
out  victims  in  the  back-country.  To  have  been 
there  by  oneself  would  have  been  most  disturlx- 
ing.  but  the  men  about  me  secmtd  to  rcgar«l  it  as 
perfectly  ordinary  and  normal.  I  stca«lied  my- 
self by  their  example. 

We  came  to  a  point  where  our  Major  was  wait- 
ing for  us,  turned  out  of  the  road,  followed  him 
down  a  grass  slope  and  so  into  a  valley.     Here 
gun-pits   were   in   the   process   of   construction. 
Guns  wre  unhooked  and  man-handled  into  their 
positions,  and  the  teams  sent  back  to  the  wagon- 
lines.     All   day   we  worked,   both   officers  and 
men,  with  pick  and  shovel.     Towards  evening  we 
had   completed   the  gun-platforms  anti  made  a 
beginning  on  the  overhead  cover.     We  had  had 
no  time  to  prepare  sleeping-quarters,  so  spread 
our  sleeping-l)ags  and  blankets  in  the  caved-in 
trenches.     About  seven  o'clock,  as  we  were  rest- 
ing, the  evening  "  hate  "  commenced.     In  those 
days  the  evening  "hate"  was  a  regular  habit 
with   the   Hun.     He   knew   our  country  better 
than  we  did,  for  he  had  retired  from  it.     Every 
evening  he  used  to  search  out  all  communicition 
trenches   and   likely   battery-positions   with   any 
quantity  of  shells.     His  idea  was  to  rob  us  of 


96    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
our  morale.     I  wish  he  might  have  seen  how 
abysmally  he  failed  to  do  it.     Down  our  narrow 
valley,  like  a  flight  of  arrows,  the  shells  screamed 
and  whistled.     Where  they  struck,  the  ground 
looked  like  Resurrection  Day  with  the  dead  el- 
bowmg  their  way  into  daylight  and  forcing  back 
the  earth  from  their  eyes.     There  were  actually 
many  dead  just  beneath  the  surface  and.  as  the 
ground  was  ploughed  up,  the  smell  of  corruption 
became     distinctly    unpleasant.     Presently    the 
shells  began  to  go  dud ;  we  realised  that  they  were 
gas-shells.    A  thin,  bluish  vapour  spread  through- 
out  the  valley  and  breathing  became  oppressive. 
Then  like  stallions,  kicking  in  their  stalls,  the 
heavy  guns  on  the  ridge  above  us  opened.     It 
was  fine  to  hear  them  stamping  their  defiance  •  it 
made  one  want  to  get  to  grips  with  his  ag- 
gressors.    In  the  brie:  silences  one  could  hear 
our  chaps  laughing.     The  danger  seemed  to  fill 
them   with  a  wild  excitement.     Every  time  a 
shell  came  near  and  missed  them,  they  would 
taunt  the  unseen  Huns  for  their  poor  gunnery, 
givmg  what  they  considt-ed  the  necessary  cor- 
rections:   "Five  minutes  more  left,  old  Cock 
If  you'd  only  drop  fifty,  you'd  get  us."     These 
men  didn't  know  what  fear  was  —  or,  if  they  did 
they  kept  it  to  themselves.    And  these  were  the 
chaps  whom  I  was  to  order. 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES    97 
A  few  days  later  my  Major  told  me  that  I  was 
to  be  ready  at  3 130  next  morning  to  accompany 
him  up  front  to  register  the  guns.     In  registering 
guns  you  take  a  telephonist  and  linesmen  with 
you.     They  lay  in  a  line  from  the  battery  to  any 
point  you  may  select  as  the  best  from  which  to 
observe  the  enemy's  country.     This  point  may  be 
two  miles  or  more  in  advance  of  your  battery. 
Your  battery  is  always  hidden  and  out  of  sight, 
for  fear  the  enemy  should  see  the  flash  of  the  fir- 
ing; consequently  the  officer  in  charge  of  the  bat- 
tery lays  the  guns  mathematically,  but  cannot 
observe  the  effect  of  his  shots.    The  officer  who 
goes  forward  can  see  the  target;  by  telephoning 
back  his  corrections,  he  makes  himself  the  eyes  of 
the  officer  at  the  guns. 

It  had  been  raining  when  we  crept  out  of  our 
kennels  to  go  forward.  It  seems  unnecessary  to 
state  that  it  had  been  raining,  for  it  always  has 
been  raining  at  the  Front.  I  don't  remember 
what  degree  of  mud  we  had  attained.  We  have 
a  variety  of  adjectives,  and  none  of  them  polite, 
to  describe  each  stage.  The  worst  of  all  is  what 
we  call  "God-Awful  Mud."  I  don't  think  it 
was  as  bad  as  that,  but  it  was  bad  enough. 
Everything  was  dim,  and  clammy,  and  spectral. 
At  the  hour  of  dawn  one  isn't  at  his  bravest.  It 
was  like  walking  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  only 


I 


98  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

We  struck  a  sloppy  road,  along  which  ghostly 
figures  passed,  with  ground  sh«ts  flung  acr^s 
*e,r  head  and  shoulders,  hke  hooded'^Z, 

lifted  ^.'„  /kT  ''"'*'  ''""^'"  *«™  •>«!"? 
Here  and  there  from  all  directions,  infantry  were 

reduce  their  casualt.es  if  a  shell  burst  near  them 
The  landscape,  the  people,  the  early  morning!^ 
ev^^thmg  was  stealthy  and  wal  J  with  muted 

We  entered  a  trench      M«!««, 

^  •      *  "cncn.     Holes  were  scof>r»<»H 

mg  soldier  who  looked  as  dead  ao  fh.  o!     ^ 
of  a  catacomb.     Some  of  l^e  h^les  hTd  C 
blown  in;  all  you  saw  of  the  latetcu^t^a: 
f  P'-otrudmg  a™  or  leg.     At  best  there  wal  a 
hornd  s,m.larity  between  the  dead  and  the  living 
It  seemed  that  the  walls  of  the  trenches  had  b^n 

forms  of  French  men  and  Huns.  They  were 
bu.  t  out  of  them,  though  whether  by  defig^^; 
accdent  ,t  was  impossible  to  tell.  We  ca.^  to 
a  group  of  men,  doing  some  repairing;  that  part 

mght     They  didn't  know  where  they  were,  or 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  99 
how  far  it  was  to  the  front-line.  We  wandered 
on,  still  laying  in  our  wire.  The  Colonel  of  our 
Brigade  joined  us  and  we  waded  on  together. 

The  enemy  shelling  was  growing  more  intense, 
as  was  always  the  way  on  the  Somme  when  we 
were  bringing  out  our  wounded.  A  good  many 
of  our  trenches  were  directly  enfilade;  shells 
burst  just  behind  the  parapet,  when  they  didn't 
burst  on  it.  It  was  at  about  this  point  in  my 
breaking-in  that  I  received  a  blow  on  the  head  — 
and  thanked  God  for  the  man  who  invented  the 
steel  helmet. 

Things  were  getting  distinctly  curious.    We 
hadn't  passed  any  infantry  for  some  time.    The 
trenches  were  becoming  each  minute  more  shal- 
low and  neglected.       Suddenly  we  found  our- 
selves in  a  narrow  furrow  which  was  packed  with 
our  own  dead.     They  had  been  there  for  some 
time  and  were  partly  buried.     They  were  sitting 
up  or  lying  forward  in  every  attitude  of  agony. 
Some  of  them  clasped  their  wounds;  some  of 
them  pointed  with  their  hands.    Their  faces  had 
changed  to  every  colour  and  glared  at  us  like 
swollen  bruises.     Their  helmets  were  off;  with 
a  pitiful,  derisive  neatness  the  rain  had  parted 
their  hair. 

We  had  to  crouch  low  because  the  trench  was 
so  shallow.    It  was  difficult  not  to  disturb  them; 


100    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

l^i„t"fh*''?   °'   °"'   trench^oats   brushed 
•gainst  their  faces. 

Z^H     r   '^  **•     '"  *'  "P''<"y  '"inning  mist 

,1^1    L"''  """  ^*"  "">''"«■    They  were 
stretcher-bearers.    The  odd  thing  was  that  the^ 
were  carrying  their  wounded  away  from,  instead 
of  towards  us.      Then  it  flashed  on  us  that  they 
were  Huns.    We  had  wandered  into  No  Man's 
Land.    Almost  at  that  moment  we  must  have 
been  spotted    for  shells  commenced   falling  at 
the  end  of  the  trench  by  which  we  had  entered. 
Spreading  out,  so  as  not  to  attract  attention,  ,ve 
commenced  to  crawl  towards  the  other  end     In 
stantly  that  also  was  closed  to  us  and  a  trtdn 
of  shdls  started  dropping  behind  us.    We  we  e 
trapped.     With    perfect    coolness -a    coolnis 
which  whatever  I  looked.  I  did  not  share -T 
went  down  on  our  hands  and  knees,  wriggling 
our  way  through  the  corpses  and  shell-hcSfs  i^ 
fte  direction  of  where  our  front-line  ought  to 
be     After  what  seemed  an  age,  we  got  back 
Uter  we  registered  the  guns,  and  on!  of  our 
officers  who  nad  been  laying  in  wire,  was  killed 
.n  the  process.    His  death,  like  everything  dse 
was^r^rded  without  emotion  asling%uite 

On  the  way  out,  when  we  had  come  to  a  part 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  xoi 
of  our  journey  where  the  tension  was  relaxed 
and  wc  could  be  less  cautious.  I  saw  a  signalling 
officer  lying  asleep  under  a  blackened  tree.  I 
called  my  Major's  attention  to  him,  saying, 
"  Look  at  that  silly  ass.  sir.  He'll  get  something 
that  he  doesn't  want  if  he  lies  there  much  longer." 
My  Major  turned  his  head,  and  said  briefly, 
"  Poor  chap,  he's  got  it." 

Then  I  saw  that  his  shoulder-blade  had  burst 
through  his  tunic  and  was  protruding.  He'd 
been  coming  out.  walking  freely  and  feeling  that 
the  danger  was  over,  just  as  we  were,  when  the 
unlucky  shell  had  caught  him.  "  His  name  must' 
have  been  written  on  it."  our  men  say  when 
that  happens.  I  noticed  that  he  had  black  boots; 
since  then  nothing  would  persuade  me  to  wear 
black  boots  in  the  trenches. 

This  first  experience  in  No  Man's  Land  did 
away  with  my  last  flabby  fear  — that,  if  I  was 
afraid,  I  would  show  it.  One  is  often  afraid. 
Any  soldier  who  asserts  the  contrary  may  not  be 
a  liar,  but  he  certainly  does  not  speak  the  truth. 
Physical  fear  is  too  deeply  rooted  to  be  over- 
come  by  any  amount  o'  iining ;  it  remains,  then, 
to  train  a  man  in  spiritual  pride,  so  that  when  he 
fears,  nobody  knows  it.  Cowardice  is  conta- 
gious. It  has  been  said  that  no  battalion  is 
braver  than  its  least  brave  member.     Military; 


h.i 


ica    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

It  IS  practised  that  it  may  save  weaker  m^'i 
Lve,  and  uphold  their  honour.  The  wor  t  toe 
you  can  say  of  a  man  at  the  Front  is.  "XdS 

tha  he  fails  to  do  hi,  duty;  what  it  mean/is  ttait 
he  fa.I,  to  do  a  little  bit  more  than  hi,  dutt 

which  tJ  IT"  ^\'  '"•  «*™'  ••'  <"«'  »><;„?, 

Trrln^  I^^""  *  ''"^"  "»"  *an  himself  to 
a^ompI,,h,  he  never  know,  when  he's  done   he 

t^^i^u  "°  """'  '°  •"■»  cheerfulness  knd 
strength;  whatever  his  rank,  he  holds  hi,  Hfe 
.e„  valuable  than  that  of  the  humbles, -hetugh: 
at  danger  not  because  he  does  not  dread  it  Z 

t^bu  a'df '"™ ?"" ""- '^ -'--t, mo^ 
terrible  and  less  curable  than  death 

The  men  in  the  ranks  taught  me  whatever  I 

Sretm^'T^'!:'^'"'-  ^  "«'"'«  from 
on  M  Tr  "^  "  '*"°«''«<«ing  this.  I  own 
t>P  to  the  new  equality,  based  on  heroic  valu^ 
which  this  war  has  established.  The  ^wZ2 
who  counts  "out  there"  i,  rt.  ™,_  i.  '^ 
ciently  self-efTacng  to  show  courage.  The  chaos 
who  haven't  done  it  are  the  exceptions.  ^ 

At  the  start  of  the  war  there  were  a  good 

a  wash-out  ,n  the  trenches.    We  have  seen  St 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     103 

" Whl'.  PT'u   u"1    *""'    """*    *«    voice. 
What  God  hath  cleansed,  that  call  not  thou 
common. 

Until  I  became  a  part  of  the  war,  I  was  a 
doubter  of  nobility  in  others  and  a  sceptic  as 
regards  myself.    The  growth  of  my  per  ona 

capacity  of  heroism  is  latent  in  everybody,  and 
«nly  awaits  the  bigness  of  the  opportunity  to  call 


1 


t/l 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

fVe  were  too  proud  to  live  for  years 
When  our  poor  death  could  dry  the  tear* 
Of  little  children  yet  unborn. 
It  scarcely  mattered  that  at  morn, 
When  manhood's  hope  was  at  its  height, 
IVe  stopped  a  bulUt  in  mid-Aight. 
It  did  not  trouble  us  to  lie 
Forgotten  'neath  the  forgetting  sky. 
So  long  Sleep  was  our  only  cure 
That  when  Death  piped  of  rest  made  sure. 
We  cast  our  fleshly  crutches  down 
Laughing  like  boys  in  Hamelin  Town. 
And  this  we  did  while  loving  life. 
Yet  loving  more  than  home  or  wife 
The  kindness  of  a  world  set  free 
For  counties*  children  yet  to  be. 


m 

GOD  AS  WE  SEE  HIM 

For  some  time  before  I  wa,  wounded,  we  had 

b*«i  m  very  hot  places.    We  could  scarcely  ex- 

PKt  then,  to  be  othe^ise.  for  we  had  put  on 

how  after  show.    A  "show"  in  our  lang"^- 

I^shoud  explain,  has  nothing  in  common  with',' 

drama     wTT  *'""'«''  "  <'°*»  "»•  '"c^ 

oM^r^t,,        TV^'  ''™  *PP'y  '°  '"y  '"••hod 
of  .rntatmg  the  Hun.  from  a  trench-raid  to  a 

h!  1,7"'-    "^Z  """  *"'  <'«'<"«"y  """oyed. 
He  had  very  good  reason.    We  were  occupying 

th^^  dug-outs  which  he  had  spent  two  years  in 

buildmg  with  French  civilian  labour.    His  U- 

boat  threats  had  failed.    He  had  offered  u    the 

o  v^branch,  and  hi,  peace  terms  had  been  re! 

W  *H  '1':;".°'  ^"'  ""  "'""S  *«  Western 
S^nt  ™  !•  ,  "'°""  '•"  '^'^mo.'l  of  us  by 
paying  particular  attention  to  our  batteries-  as 

a  consequence  our  shell-dressings  were  all  used 

«rrtcher?.^°™   °"*   "'*   *'   8'""*™"   o" 
stretchers  who  were  contemplating  a  vacation  in 

«05 


!! 


IM 


io6  THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
Blighty.  We  couldn't  get  enough  to  re-pUce 
them.  There  was  a  hitch  somewhere.  The  de- 
mand for  shelWres«ingi  exceeded  the  supply. 
2>o  I  got  on  my  horse  one  Sunday  and.  with  my 
RToom  accompanying  me,  rode  into  the  back- 
country  to  see  if  I  couldn't  pick  some  up  at  va- 
rious Field  Dressing  Stations  and  Collecting 
i*omts.  • 

In  the  course  of  my  wanderings  I  came  to  a 
cathedral  city.     It  was  a  city  which  was  and  still 
H  beautiful,  despite  the  constant  bombardments. 
The  Huns  had  just  finished  hurling  a  few  more 
tons  of  explosives  into  it  as  I  and  my  groom  en- 
tered.   The  streets  were  deserted ;  it  might  have 
been  a  city  of  the  dead.     There  was  no  sound, 
except  the  ringing  iron  of  our  horses'  shoes  on 
the  cobble  pavement.     Here  and  there  we  came 
to  what  looked  like  a  barricade  which  barred  our 
progress ;  actually  it  was  the  piled-up  walls  and 
rubbish  of  buildings  which  had  collapsed.    From 
cellars,  now  and  then,  faces  of  women,  children 
and  ancient  men  peered  out  —  they  were  sharp 
and  pointed  like  rats.    One's  imagination  went 
back   five   hundred   years  —  everything   seemed 
medieval,  short-lived  and  brutal.     This  might 
have  been  Limoges  after  the  Black  Prince  had 
finished  massacring  its  citizens;  or  it  might  have 
been  Pans,  when  the  wolves  came  down  and 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     107 
Fwn^ii  Villon  tried  to  find  a  lodging  for  the 

I  turned  up  through  narrow  alleys  where  grass 
was  growing  and  found  myself,  almost  by  acci- 
dent  m  a  garden.    It  was  a  green  and  spacious 
garden,    with   fifteen-foot    walls   about    it   and 
flowers  which  Kattered  themselves  broadcast  in 
neglected   not.     We  dismounted   and   tied  our 
horses.     Wandering  along  its  paths,  we  came 
across   little  summer-houses,   statues,    fountains 
and  then,  without  any  hindrance,  found  ourselves 
m  the  nave  of  a  fine  cathedral  which  was  roofed 
only  by  the  sky.    Two  years  of  the  Hir  .  had 
made  it  as  much  a  ruin  as  Tintem  Abbey.     Here 
too,  the  flowTs  had  intruded.     They  grew  be-' 
tween  gravt.    .1  the  pavement  and  scrambled  up 
Uie  walls,  wherever  they  could  find  .         thold 
At  the  far  end  of  this  stretch  of  destruction  ,tood 
the  high  altar,  totally  untouched  by  the  hurricane 
of  shell-fire.     The  saints  were  perched  in  their 
niches  composed  and  stately.    The  Christ  looked 
down  from  His  cross,  ^,  he  had  done  for  centu- 
ncs  sweeping  the  length  of  splendid  arcbtecture 
with  sad  eyes.     It  seemed  a  miracle  that  f  e  altar 
had  been  spared,  when  everything  else  had  fallen. 
A  reason  is  given  for  its  escape.     Every  Sabbath 
8ince  the  start  of  the  war,  no  matter  how  severe 
the  bombardment,  service  has  been  held  there 


io8    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
The  thin-faced  women,  rat-ficed  children  and 
inaent  men  have  crept  out  from  their  cellars  and 
ipithered  alKiut  the  prieit:  the  lamp  has  lietn  lit. 
the  Host  uplifted.     The  Hun  is  aware  of  this; 
with  ma  ,ce  aforethought  he  lands  shells  into  the 
cathedral  every  Sunday  in  an  effort  to  smash  the 
•Itar.     So  far  he  has  failed.     One  finds  in  this 
1  symbol  -  that  in  the  heart  of  the  maelstrom 
of  horror,  which  this  war  has  created,  there  it 
•  quiet  place  where  the  lamp  of  gentleness  and 
honour  IS  kept  burning.     The  Hun  will  have  to 
do  a  lot  more  shelling  before  he  puts  the  lamp 
of  kindness  out.     From  the  polluted  trenches  of 
VI  ;iy  the  poppies  spring  up,  blazoning  abroad  in 
vivid  scarlet  the  heroism  of  our  lads'  willing  sac 
nfice.     All  this  April,  high  above  the  shouting  of 
our  gun.   the  larks  sang  joyously.     The  scarlet 
of  the  poppies,  the  song  of  the  larks,  the  lamp 
•hining  on  the  altar  are  only  external  signs  of 
Uie  unconquerable,  happy  religion  which  lies  hid- 
den in  the  hearts  of  our  men.     Their  religion  is 
he  religion  of  heroism,  which  they  have  learnt 
m  the  glory  of  the  trenches. 

There  was  a  line  from  William  Morris's 
Earthy  Paradise  which  used  to  haunt  me.  es- 
pecially  m  the  early  days  when  I  was  first 
experiencing  what  war  really  meant.  Since  re- 
turning  for  a  brief  space  to  where  books  are  ac- 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRKNCHES     109 

"pr  llMw,  o.  Hen  I  bm  no  pm,.,  ,»  .(« 
or  imin  quick^oming  duih  .  I.iti,  ,h(,^.- 

kh.k.  h«ve  !„,„,  ,0  do  ju.«  that.  Morri.  gon 
i«  to  t<l|  ihem  d«thl«.  „ori«  .bouthTroe/,^ 
•nd.  h«au«  of  that,  are  immune  from  death 

S^'Hotr"  "/::•  .""•  ""<^'  °' «"  -p«y 

war  when  people  had  only  pin-pricks  to  endure 
and     o„  ,y.  ,y„,  „,„  ,,^^,^^^  J«. 

travel    A  b,g  „cr,fice.  which  bankn.pt,  one's  ( 

■<  anvays  more  bearable  than  the  little  inevi- 
d*yi.;.  m  .r."  °T  ."*""'•  '"»nP<""»"'««  and  ' 

S  u,  tf"**".  ^''•"  **  *°"'^  *">'*«" 
Nearly  ainhn .  *  T'^  '^^  *'"  "<"""«"• 
a  pr«^f  of  th,t-,t  record,  our  fear  of  failure, 
"x,  old  age  .nd  particularly   ,f  a  God  who  re^ 


I!    [ 


II  ' 


110    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

A™!.'".^'""' ",."'■"""•    N°*-  ^h"'  *«  have 
Arust  the  world,  affections,  life  itself  behind 

us  and  gaze  hourly  into  the  eyes  of  Death,  belief 

comes  as  simply  and  clearly  as  it  did  when  we 

;«;ere    children.    Curious    and    extraordinary! 

shoulder,  °"  '•""  ^''  ^"PP^"  f™™  o- 

shoulders  m  our  attempt  to  do  something  for 

others,  the  unbelievable  and  long  coveted  n^racle 

™hT'?~'"  '"'*  '°  ^'^y  ^°">  "ho  has 
grasped  h>s  chance  of  heroism  quick-coming  death 
has  become  a  fifth-rate  calamity. 

In  saying  this  I  do  not  mean  to  glorify  war- 
war  can  never  be  anything  but  beastly  and' 
damnable.    It  dates  back  to  the  jungle     But 

.tT,rJ"'°  '■'"''  °'  ^"-     T""^''  'he  kind 
that  a  h.ghway-,.an  wages,  when  he  pounces  from 

«L1    ^"t-  r  *"«*  ^^^  y°"  K°  'o  her 
rescue     The  highwayman  can't  expect  to  come 

out  of  the  fight  with  a  loftier  morality-you 

can.     Our  chi.ps  never  wanted  to  fight.     They 

hate  fighfng;  ifs  that  hatred  of  the  thing  they 

are  compelled  to  do  that  makes  them  so  terrible 

The  last  thought  to  enter  their  heads  four  rears 

ago  was  that  to-day  they  would  be  in  khaki 

i hey  had  never  been  trained  to  the  use  of  arms- 

a  good  many  of  them  conceived    f  themselves  as 

cowards.     They    entered    the    war    to    defend 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  iii 
rather  than  to  destroy.  They  literally  put  behind 
them  houses,  brethren,  sisters,  father,  mother, 
wife,  children,  lands  for  the  Kingdom  of  Heav- 
en's sake,  though  they  would  be  the  last  to  express 
themselves  in  that  fashion. 

At  a  cross-road  at  the  bottom  of  a  hill,  on  the 
way  to  a  gun-position  we  once  had,  stood  a  Cal- 
vary —  one  of  those  wayside  altars,  so  frequently 
met  in  France,  with  pollarded  trees  surrounding 
It  and  an  image  of  Christ  in  His  agony.     Pious 
peasants  on  their  journey  to  market  or  as  they 
worked  in  the  fields,  had  been  accustomed  to  raise 
their  eyes  to  it  and  cross  themselves.     It  had 
comforted  them  with  the  knowledge  of  protec- 
tion.   The  road  leading  back  from  it  and  up  the 
hill  was  gleaming  white  — a  direct  enfilade  for 
the  Hun.  and  always  under  observation.     He 
kept  guns  trained  on  it ;  at  odd  intervals,  any  hour 
during  the  day  or  night,  he  would  sweep  it  with 
shell-fire.    The    woods    in    the    vicinity    were 
blasted  and  blackened.     It  was  the  season  for 
eaves  and  flowers,  but  there  was  no  greenness. 
Whatever  of  vegetation  had  not  been  uprooted 
and   buried,  had  been  poisoned  by  gas     The 
atmosphere  was  vile  with  the  odour  of  decaying 
fleshy   In  the  early  morning,  if  you  passed  by 
the  Calvary,  there  was  always  some  fresh  trag- 
edy.    The  newly  dead  lay  sprawled  out  againtt 


.,iv.  .J-^^'l 


• MMf^'-^SV    . 


l;!i 


112    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

'^Jl7n\^'-  '^"^''  ""^  '""'  "'^Sgesl  themselves 
here  m  their  last  moments.    If  you  looked  along 
the  road    all  the  glazed  eyes  seemed  to  stare 
towards  ,t.    "Lord,  remember  me  when  thJu 
comest  mto  thy  Kingdom,"  they  seemed  to  say. 
The  wooden  Christ  gazed  down  on  them  from 
H.S  cross.  w,th  a  suffering  which  two  thousand 
years  ago  he  had  shared.    The  terrible  pity  of 
H>s  silence  seemed  to  be  telling  them  that  they 
had  become  one  with  Him  in  their  final  sacrifice 
They  hadn't  „ved  His  life -far  from  it;  un- 
knowmgfy  they  had  died  Hi,  death.    That's  a 
part  of  the  glory  of  the  trenches,  that  .  man  who 
has  not  been  good,  can  crucify  himself  and  hang 

pleasant  places  those  weary  souls  find  rest 

m1       "T  I  '"°"''  ^"^"'"y  -  "  h^P  of  ruins. 
Nothmg  of  the  altar  or  trees,  by  which  it  had 

teen  surrounded,  was  left.    The  first  time  I 

passed  It,  I  saw  a  foot  protruding.    The  man 

m-ght  be  wound«I;  I  climbed  up  to^examine^d 

pulled  aside  the  debris.    Beneath  it  I  found,  like 

that  of  one  three  weeks  dead,  the  naked  body  of 

t  fr^"f     ^*  '""'^""^  "'^"  "-''  "r«>ched 
t  from  Its  cross.    Aslant  the  face,  with  gratui- 
ty". Wasphemy,  the  crown  of  thorns  was  tilted 
e  two  Calvaries  picture  for  me  the  part 
irist  IS  playing  in  the  present  war.    He 


tous 

T 

that 


%*^ 


A'^^ 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  ii^ 
survives  in  the  noble  self^ffacement  of  the  men. 
He  IS  re-crucified  in  the  defilements  that  are 
v/rought  upon  their  bodies. 

God  as  we  see  Him!    And  do  we  see  Him? 
1   think   so.   but  not   always   consciously.     He 
moves  among  us  in  the  forms  of  our  brother  men. 
We  see  him  most  evidently  when  danger  is  most 
threatening  and  courage  is  at  its  highest.    We 
don  t  often  recognise  Him  out  loud.     Our  chaps 
don  t  assert  that  they're  His  fellow-campaigners. 
They  re  too  humble-minded  and  inarticulate  for 
that     They  re  where  they  are  because  they  want 
to  do  their  "bit "-their  duty.     A  carefully 
disgmsed  instinct  of  honour  brought  them  there. 
.  ^7«^  *^«i^  bit "  in  Bible  language  means,  lay- 
ing  dov  ^  their  lives  for  their  friends.     After 
all  they  re  not  so  far  from  Nazareth 

"Doing  their  hit!"    That  covers  everything. 
Here  s  an  example  of  how  God  walks  among  us. 
In  one  of  our  attacks  on  the  Somme,  all  the  ob- 
sen  ^rs  up  forward  were  uncertain  as  to  what 
had  happened.    We  didn't  know  whether  our  in- 
fantry had  captured  their  objective,  failed,  or 
gone  beyonu  it.     The  battle  dd,  as  far  as  eye 
could  reach,  was  a  bath  of  n  ud.     It  is  extremely 
easy  m  the  excitement  of  an  offensive,  when  all 
hndmarks  are  blotted  out,  for  our  storming  par- 
tie.  to  lose  their  direction.     If  this  happens,  a 


1 1 


wm^^^m 


ri4     THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
number  of  dangers  may  result.    A  battalion  may 
find  itself  "up  in  the  air."  which  means  that  it 
has  failed  to  connect  with  the  battalions  on  its 
right  and  left;  its  flanks  are  then  exposed  to  the 
enemy.     It  may  advance  too  far,  and  start  dig- 
gmg  itself  in  at  a  point  where  it  was  previously 
arranged  that  our  artillery  should  place  their  pro- 
tective wall  of  fire.     We.  being  up  forward  as 
artillery  observers,  are  the  eyes  of  the  army.     It 
is  our  business  to  watch  for  such  contingencies, 
to  keep  in  touch  with  the  situation  as  it  pro- 
Srresses  and  to  send  our  information  back   as 
quickly  as  possible.     We  were  peering  through 
our  glasses  from  our  point  of  vantage  when,  far 
away  in  the  thickest  of  the  battle-smoke,  we  saw 
a  white  flag  wagging,  -nding  back  messages. 
The  flag-wagging  was  repeated  desperately  it 
was  evident  that  no  one  had  replied,  and  prob- 
able that  no  one  had  picked  up  the  messages.     A 
signaller  who  was  with  us,  read  the  language  for 
us.     A  company  of  infantry  had  advanced  too 
far :  they  were  most  of  them  wounded,  verv  many 
of  them  dead,  and  they  were  in  danger  oi  being 
surrounded.     They  asked   for  our  artillery  to 
place  a  curtain  of  fire  in  front  of  them,  and  for 
reinforcements  to  be  sent  up. 

We  at  once  'phoned  the  orders  through  to  our 
artillery  and  notified  the  infantry  headquarters  of 


i! 

J    t 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     115 

the  division  that  was  holding  that  front.  But  it 
was  necessary  to  let  those  chaps  know  that  we 
were  aware  of  their  predicament.     They'd  hang 

on  if  they  knew  that;  otherwise . 

Without  orders  our  signaller  was  getting  his 
flags  ready.  If  he  hopped  out  of  the  trench 
onto  the  parapet,  he  didn't  stand  a  fifty-fifty 
chance.  The  Hun  was  familiar  with  our  ob- 
servation station  and  strafed  it  with  persistent 
regularity. 

The  signaller  turned  to  the  senior  officer  pres- 
ent, "What  will  I  send  them,  sir? " 

"  Tell  them  their  messages  have  been  received 
and  that  help  is  coming." 

Out  the  chap  scrambled,  a  f.ag  in  either  hand 
—  he  was  nothing  but  a  boy.  He  ran  crouching 
like  a  rabbit  to  a  hump  of  mud  where  his  figure 
would  show  up  against  the  sky.  His  flags  com- 
menced wagging,  "Messages  received.  Help 
coming."  They  didn't  see  him  at  first.  He  had 
to  repeat  the  words.  We  watqh'  1  him  breath- 
lessly. We  knew  what  would  h  ppen;  at  last 
it  happened.  A  Hun  observer  had  spotted  him 
and  flashed  the  target  back  to  his  guns.  All 
about  him  the  mud  commenced  to  leap  and  bul>- 
ble.  He  went  on  signalling  the  good  word  to 
those  stranded  men  up  front,  "  Messages  re- 
ceived.    Help    coming."    At    last    they'd    seen 


ill: 


:  I! : 


Hi 


ii 


116    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
him     They  were  signaling,  "O.  K."    It  was 
at  that  moment  that  a  whi«.bang  lifted  him  off 

"  L»  ^  ',"''  ^"^^  ''™  »"  °f  «  huddle.    HU 

Mf       It  was  what  he'd  volunteered  to  do. 

when  he  came  from  Canada.    The  signalled  "  O. 

hi,  cL"  rl«e^"'*"""*'  *«  «■«  »  '""™°"y  to 

vv]!^'"  r'  ^'"^  °'  '^•P  *'  ^°^  *«  «««  °n  the 

t'Whl'mJr;    '*   ""''   '   "<•   P~P'   "">er. 
Vwrr?         °'  something  worth  while  death 
loses  all  .ts  terror.    Ifs  petering  out  in  bed  from 
sickness  or  old  age  that's  so  horrifying.    Many 
a  man.  whose  cowardice  is  at  loggerheads  with 
his  sense  of  duty,  comes  to  the  Front  as  a  non- 
combatant;  he  compromises  with  his  conscience 
and  takes  a  bomb-proof  job  in  some  service 
whose  place  is  well  behind  the  lines.    He  doesn't 
stop  there  long,  if  he's  a  decent  sort     hS 
learn  more  than  ever  he  guessed  before  about  thf 
bruta    things  that  rhell-fire  can  do  to  you.  he 
transfers  ,nto  a  fighting  unit.    Why?    Because 

fhT  ''°*:"''  .""'«"'  "  »""'«»-  I«  hods"" 
challenge.  It  stings  one's  pride.  It  urges  one 
o  seek  out  ascending  scales  of  risk,  just  to  prove 
to  himself  that  he  isn't  flabby.  The  safe  job  is 
fte  only  job  for  which  there's  no  competitfon  in 
%htmg  units.  You  have  to  persuade  men  to  be 
grooms,  or  cooks,  or  batmen.    If  you're  seeking 


mi 
ftiiii 


"'^omBIM-' 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     117 

volunteers  for  a  chance  at  annihilation,  you  have 
to  cast  lots  to  avoid  the  offence  of  rejecting.  All 
of  this  is  inexplicable  to  civilians.  I've  heard 
them  call  the  men  at  the  Front  "spiritual 
geniuses  "  — which  sounds  splendid,  but  means 
nothing. 

H  civilian  philosophers  fail  to  explain  us,  we 
can  explain  them.     In  their  world  they  are  the 
centre  of  their  universe.     They  look  inward,  in- 
stead of  outward.     The  sun  rises  and  sets  to 
minister  to  their  particular  happiness.     If  they 
should  die,  the  stars  would  vanish.     We  under- 
stand ;  a  few  months  ago  we,  too,  were  like  that. 
What  makes  us  reckless  of  death  is  our  intense 
gratitude  that  we  have  altered.     We  want  to 
prove  to  ourselves  in  excess  how  utterly  we  arc 
changed  from  what  we  were.     In  his  secret  heart 
the  egotist  is  a  self-despiser.    Can  you  imagine 
what  a  difference  it  works  in  a  man  after  years 
of  self-contempt,  at  least  for  one  brief  moment 
to  approve  of  himself?    Ever  since  we  can  re- 
member, we  were  chained  to  the  prison-house  of 
our  bodies;  we  lived  to  feed  our  bodies,  to  clothe 
our  bodies,  to  preserve  our  bodies,  to  minister  to 
their  passions.    Now  we  know  that  our  bodies 
are  mere  flimsy  shells,  in  which  our  souls  are 
paramount.     We  can  fling  them  aside  any  min- 
ute; they  become  ignoble  the  moment  the  soul  has 


.,1 

-I 


1x8    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

departed.    We  have  proof.    Often  at  zero  hour 
we  have  seen  whole  populations  of  cities  go  over 
the  top  and  vanish,  leaving  behind  them  their 
bloody  rags.    We  should  go  mad  if  we  did  not 
believe  in  immortality.     We  know  that  the  phyi- 
ical  IS  not  the  essential  part    How  better  can  a 
man  shake  off  his  flesh  than  at  the  hour  when  his 
spirit  is  most  shining?    The  exact  day  when  he 
dies  does  not  matter  —  to-morrow  or  fifty  years 
hence.    The  vital  concern  is  not  when,  but  how. 
The  civilian  philosopher  considers  what  we've 
lost.    He  forgets  that  it  could  never  have  been 
ours  for  long.    In  many  cases  it  was  misused 
and  scarcely  worth  having  while  it  lasted.    Some 
of  us  were  too  weak  to  use  it  well.    We  might 
use  It  better  now.    We  turn  from  such  thoughts 
and  reckon  up  our  gains.    On  the  debit  side  we 
place  ourselves  as  we  were.     Wc  probably  caught 
a  train  every  morning  —  the  same  train,  we  went 
to  a  business  where  we  sat  at  a  desk.    Neither 
the  business  nor  the  desk  ever  altered.    We  re- 
ceived the  same  strafing  from  the  same  employer; 
or.  if  we  were  the  employer,  we  administered 
the  same  strafing.     We  only  did  these  things  that 
we  might  eat  bread ;  our  dreams  were  all  selfish 
--of  more  clothes,  more  respect,  more  food, 
bigger  houses.    The  least  part  of  the  day  we 
devoted  to  the  people  and  the  things  we  reaUy 


^ii'i 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  1 19 

cared    for.    And    the    people   we    loved wc 

weren't  always  nice  to  them.  On  the  credit  side 
we  place  ourselves  as  we  are  — doing  a  man's 
job,  doing  it  for  some  one  else,  and  unafraid  to 
meet  God. 

Before  the  war  the  word  "  ideals  "  had  grown 
out-of-date  and  priggish  — we  had  substituted 
for  it  the  more  robust  word  "  ambitions."  To- 
day ideals  have  come  bock  to  their  place  in  our 
vocabulary.  We  have  forgotten  that  we  ever 
had  ambitions,  but  at  this  moment  men  ar«  drown-  / 
ing  for  ideals  in  the  mud  of  Flanders. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  true;  it  isn't  natural  to  be 
brave.    How,  then,  have  multitudes  of  men  ac- 
quired this  sudden  knack  of  courage?    They 
have  been  educated  by  the  greatness  of  the  oc- 
casion ;  when  big  sacrifices  have  been  demanded, 
men  have  never  been  found  lacking.    And  they 
have  acquired  it  through,  discipline  and  training. 
When  you  have  subjected  yourself  to  disci- 
pline, you  cease  to  think  of  yourself;  you  are  not 
you,  but  a  part  of  a  company  of  men.    If  ytm 
don't  do  your  duty,  you  throw  the  whole  machine 
out.     You  soon  learn  the  hard  lesson  that  every 
man's  life  and  every  man's  service  belong  to 
other  people.    Of  this  the  organisation  of  an 
army  is  a  vivid  illustration.     Take  the  infantry, 
for  instance.    They  can't  fight  by  themselves,'    } 


I   i 


( 


MO    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
they're  dependent  on  the  support  of  the  artillery. 
The  artillery,  in  their  turn,  would  be  terribly 
crippled,  were  it  not  for  the  gallantry  of  the  air 
•ervice.     H  the  infantr   collapse,  the  guns  have 
to  go  back;  if  the  infantry  advance,  the  guns 
have  to  be  pulled   forward.     This  close  inter- 
dependence of  service  on  service,  division  on  di- 
vision, battalion  on  battery,  follows  right  down 
through  the  army  till  it  reaches  the  individual, 
«o  that  each  man  feels  that  the  day  will  be  lost 
If  he  fails.     His  imagination  becomes  intrigued 
by  the  immensity  of  the  stakes  for  which  he  plays 
Any  physical  calamity  which  may  happen  to  him- 
self becomes  trifling  when  compared  with  the  dis- 
grace he  would  bring  upon  his  regiment  if  he 
were  not  courageous. 

A  few  months  ag6  I  was  handing  over  a  bat- 
tepr-position  in  a  fairly  warm  place.  The  major, 
who  came  up  to  take  over  from  me,  brought  with 
him  a  subaltern  and  just  enough  men  to  run  the 
guns.  Within  half-an-hour  of  their  arrival,  a 
stray  shell  came  over  and  caught  the  subaltern 
and  five  of  the  gun-detachment.  It  was  plain  at 
once  that  the  subaltern  was  dying  — his  name 
must  have  been  written  on  the  shell,  as  we  say 
m  France.  We  got  a  stretcher  and  made  all 
haste  to  rush  him  out  to  a  dressing-station.    Just 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  lai 
M  he  was  leaving,  he  asked  to  speak  with  his 
major.  "  I'm  so  sorry,  sir;  I  didnt  mean  to 
get  wounded."  he  whispered.  The  last  word  he 
•ent  back  from  the  dressing-station  where  he 
died,  was,  "  Tell  the  major.  I  didn't  mean  to  do 
It.  That's  discipline.  He  didn't  think  of  him- 
self:  all  he  thought  of  was  that  his  major  would 
be  left  short-handed. 

Here's  another  story,  illustrating  how  merci- 
lessly discipline  can  restore  a  man  to  his  higher 
lelf.  Ust  spring,  the  night  before  an  attack, 
a  man  was  brought  into  a  battalion  headquarters 
dug-out.  under  arrest.  The  adjutant  and  Col- 
onel were  busy  attending  to  the  last  details  of 
their  preparations.  The  adjutant  looked  up 
irritably.  '^ 

"What  is  it?" 

The  N.  C.  O.  of  the  guard  answered,  "We 
found  this  man,  sir,  in  a  communication  trench. 
His  company  has  been  in  the  front-line  two 
hours.  He  was  sitting  down,  with  his  equipment 
thrown  away,  and  evidently  had  no  intention  of 
going  up." 

« x]J*  adjutant  glanced  coldly  at  the  prisoner. 
What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?  " 
iTic  man  was  ghastly  white  and  shaking  like 
an  asi)en.    "  Sir.  I'm  not  the  man  I  was  since 


122    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

I  Mw  my  best  friend,  Jimmie.  with  hk  head 
blown  off  and  lying  in  !ii»  hands.  It'i  kind  of 
got  me.     I  can't  face  up  to  it" 

The  adjutant  wai  silent  for  a  few  §econdi; 
then  he  taid,  "  You  know  you  have  a  double 
choice.  You  can  either  be  ihot  up  there,  doing 
your  duty,  or  behind  the  line«  as  a  coward.  It't 
for  you  to  choose.     I  don't  care." 

The  interview  was  ended.  He  turned  again 
to  the  Colonel.  The  man  slowly  straightened 
himself,  saL.  d  like  a  soldier  and  marched  out 
alone  to  the  Front.  That's  what  discipline  does 
for  a  man  who's  going  back  on  himself. 

One  of  the  big  influences  that  helps  to  keep  a 
soldier's  soul  sanitary  is  what  is  known  in  the 
British  Army  as  !*  spit  and  polish."  Directly 
we  pull  out  for  a  rest,  we  start  to  work  burnishing 
and  washing.  The  chaps  may  have  shown  the 
most  brilliant  courage  and  self-sacrificing  endur- 
ance, it  counts  for  nothing  if  they're  untidy. 
The  first  morning,  no  matter  what  are  the 
weather  conditions,  we  hold  an  inspection ;  every 
man  has  to  show  up  with  his  chin  shaved,  hair 
cut,  leather  polished  and  buttons  shining.  If 
he  doesn't  he  gets  hell. 

There's  a  lot  in  it.  You  bring  a  man  put  from 
a  tight  comer  where  he's  been  in  hourly  contact 
with  death ;  he's  apt  to  think,  "  What's  the  use  of 


(F^.     / 


It 
i 


fi 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     laj 

taking:  pride  in  myself.     I'm  likely  to  be  'done 
in*  any  day.     It'll  be  all  the  »ame  when   I'm 
dead."    But  if  he  doesn't  keep  clean  in  his  body, 
he  won't  keep  clean  in  his  mind.     The  man  who 
has  his  buttons  shining  brightly  and  his  leather 
Hi.^hed,  is  usually  the  man  who  is  brightly  pol- 
ishc<l  inside.     Spit  and  polish  teaches  a  man  to 
come  out  of  the  trenches  from  seeing  his  pals 
killed,  and  to  carry  on  as  though  nothing  ab- 
nonnal  had  happened.     It  c<lucatcs  him  in  an 
impersonal    attitude    towards    calamity    which 
makes  it  bearable.     It  forces  him  not  to  regard 
anything  too  tragically.     If  you  can  stand  aside 
from  yourself  and  poke  fun  at  your  own  tragedy 
—  and  tragedy  always  has  its  humorous  aspect  — 
that  helps.     The  songs  which  have  been  inspired 
by  the  trenches  are  examples  of  this  tendency. 

The  last  thing  you  find  anybody  singing  "  out 
there"  is  something  patriotic;  the  last  thing  you 
find  anybody  reading  is  Rupert  Brooke's  poems. 
When  men  sing  among  the  shell-holes  they  prc- 
ler  a  song  which  belittles  their  own  heroism. 
Please  picture  to  yourself  a  company  of  mud- 
stained  scarecrows  in  steel-helmets,  plodding 
their  way  under  intermittent  shelling  through  a 
battered  trench,  whistling  and  humming  the  fol- 
lowing splendid  sentiments  from  The  Plea  of 
The  Conscientious  Objector: 


124     THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

"  Send  us  the  Army  and  the  Navy.    Send  us  tiie  rank  and 
file. 

Send  us  the  grand  old  Territorials  —  they'll  face  the  dan- 
ger with  a  smile. 

Where  are  the  boys  of  the  Old  Brigade  who  made  old 
Cngland  free? 

You  may  send  my  mother,  my  sister  or  my  brother, 

But  for  Gawd's  sake  don't  send  me." 

They  leave  off  whistling  and  humming  to  shout 
the  last  line.  A  shell  falls  near  them  — tb  n 
another,  then  another.  They  crouch  for  i 
minute  against  the  sticky  walls  to  escape  the  fly 
ing  spray  of  death.  Then  they  plod  onward 
again  through  the  mud  whistling  and  humming, 
"  But  for  Gawd's  sake  don't  send  me."  They're 
probably  a  carrying  party,  taking  up  the  rations 
to  their  pals.  It's  quite  likely  they'll  have  a  bad 
time  to-night  —  thfere's  the  smell  of  gas  in  the 
air.  Good  luck  to  them.  They  disappear  round 
the  next  traverse. 

Our  men  sing  many  mad  burlesques  on  their 
own  splendour  —  parodies  on  their  daily  fineness. 
Here's  a  last  example  — a  take-off  on  "A  Little 
Bit  of  Heaven: 


,  w 


"  Oh,  a  little  bit  of  shrapnel  fell  from  out  the  sky  one  day, 
And  It  landed  on  a  soldier  in  a  field  not  far  away ; 
But  when  they  went  to  find  him  he  was  bust  beyond  re- 
pair, 

So  they  pulled  his  legs  and  arms  off  and  they  left  him 
lying  there. 


-JSTTJ^  ■henxf.i-a^  - 


..-ferfc- 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     125 

"''"o'kt  w!"  '"''  "*"""•  *''^  "^'  •"^  -''  ''^y  °"«ht 
And^thcy  put  a  little  cro.,  up  ^hich  bore  hi,  name  ,0 

On  the^day  he  took  hi,  farewell  for  a  better  Promi,ed 

One  learns  to  laugh -one  has  to -just  as 
he  has  to  learn  to  believe  in  immortality.     The 
Front  affords  plenty  of  occasions  for  humour 
It  a  man  has  only  learnt  to  laugh  at  himself.     I 
had  been  sent  forward  to  report  at  a  battalion 
headquarters   as   liaison   officer    for  an   attack. 
The  headquarters  were  in  a  captured  dug-out 
somewhere  under  a  ruined  house.    Just  as  I  got 
there  and  was  searching  among  the  fallen  walls 
for  an  entrance,  the  Hun  barrage  came  down. 
It  was  hke  the  Yellowstone  Park  when  all  the 
geysers  are  angry  at  the  same  time.     Roofs 
beams,  chips  of  stone  commenced  to  fly  in  every 
direction.     In  the  middle  of  the  hubbub  a  small 
dump  of  bombs  was  struck  b;      shell  and  started 
to  explode  behind  me.     The    >  ast  of  the  explo- 
sion  caught  me  up  and  hurleu  me  down  fifteen 
stairs  of  the  dug-out  I  had  been  trying  to  dis- 
cover.    I  landed  on  all  fours  in  a  place  full  of 
darkness;  a  door  banged  behind  me.    I  don't 
know  how  long  I  lay  there.    Something  was 


126     THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

squirming  under  me.  A  voice  said  plaintively, 
*'  I  don't  know  who  you  arc,  but  I  wish  you'd 
get  off.     I'm  the  adjutant." 

It's  a  queer  country,  that  place  we  call  "out 
there."  You  approach  our  front-line,  as  it  is 
to-day,  across  anywhere  from  five  to  twenty  miles 
of  battlefields.  Nothing  in  the  way  oi  habita- 
tion is  left.  Everything  has  been  beaten  into 
pulp  by  hurricanes  of  shell-fire.  First  you  come 
to  a  metropolis  of  horse-lines,  which  makes  you 
think  that  a  mammoth  circus  has  arrived.  Then 
you  come  to  plank  roads  and  little  light  railways, 
running  out  like  veins  across  the  mud.  Far 
away  there's  a  ridge  and  a  row  of  charred  trees, 
which  stand  out  gloomily  etched  against  the  sky. 
The  sky  is  grey  and  damp  and  sickly ;  fleecy  balls 
of  smoke  burst .  against  it  —  shrapnel.  You 
wonder  whether  they've  caught  anybody.  Over- 
head you  hear  the  purr  of  engines  —  a  flight  of 
aeroplanes  breasting  the  clouds.  Behind  you 
observation  balloons  hang  stationary,  like  gigan- 
tic tethered  sausages. 

If  you're  riding,  you  dismount  before  you 
reach  the  ridge  and  send  your  horse  back;  the 
Hun  country  is  in  sight  on  the  other  side.  You 
creep  up  cautiously,  taking  careful  note  of  where 
the  shells  are  falling.  There's  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  walking  into  a  barrage;  you  make  up 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     127 

your  mind  to  wait.  The  rate  of  fire  has  slaclc- 
ened ;  you  make  a  dash  for  it.  From  the  ridge 
there's  a  pathway  which  runs  down  through  the 
blackened  wood;  two  men  going  alone  are  not 

likely   to  be   spotted.     Not   likely,   but . 

There's  an  old  cement  Hun  gun-pit  to  the  right ; 
you  take  cover  in  it.  "  Pretty  wide  awake,"  you 
say  to  your  companion,  "  to  have  picked  U3  out 
as  quickly  as  that." 

From  this  sheltered  hiding  you  have  time  to 
gaze  about  you.    The  roof  of  the  gun-pit  is 
smashed  in  at  one  comer.    Our  heavies  did  that 
when  the  Hun  held  the  ridge.     It  was  good  shoot- 
ing.   A  perfect  warren  of  tunnels  and  dug-outs 
leads  off  in  every  direction.     They  were  built  by 
the  forced  labour  of  captive  French  civilians. 
We  have  found  requests  from  them  scrawled  in 
pencil  on  the  boards:    "I,  Jean  Ribeau,  was 
alive  and  well  on  May  12th,  1915.    If  this  meets 
the  eye  of  a  friend,  I  beg  that  he  will  inform  my 
wife,"  etc.;  after  which  follows  the  wife's  ad- 
dress.    These  underground  fortifications  proved 
as  much  a  snare  as  a  protection  to  our  enemies. 
I  smile  to  remember  how  after  our  infantry  had 
advanced  three  miles,  they  captured  a  Hun  major 
busily  shaving  himself  in  his  dug-out,  quite  un- 
aware   that   anything   unusual    was    happening. 
He  was  very  angry  because  he  had  been  calling 


p^    mttrtiu 


128  THE  GLORY  r)F  THE  TRENCHES 

in  vain  for  his  man  to  bring  his  hot  water. 
When  he  heard  the  footsteps  of  our  infantry  on 
the  stairs,  he  thought  it  was  his  servant  and 
started  strafing.  He  got  the  surprise  of  his  ven- 
erable life  when  he  saw  the  khaki. 

From  the  gun-pit  the  hill  slants  steeply  to  the 
plain.     It  was  once  finely  wooded.     Now  the 
trees  lie  thick  as  corpses  where  an  attack  has 
failed,  scythed  down  by  bursting  shells.     From 
the  foot  of  the  hill  the  plain  spreads  out.  a  sea 
of  furrowed  slime  and  craters.     It's  difficult  to 
pick    out    trenches.     Nothing    is    moving.     It's 
hard  to  believe  that  anything  can  live  down  there. 
Suddenly,  as  though  a  gigantic  egg-beater  were 
at  work,  the  mud  is  thrashed  and  tormented. 
Smoke  drifts  across  the  area  that  is  being  strafed; 
through  the  smoke  the  stakes  and  wire  hurtle.' 
If  you  hadn't  been  in  flurries  of  that  sort  your- 
self, you'd  think  that  no  one  could  exist  through 
it.     It's  ended  now ;  once  again  the  country  lies 
dead  and  breathless  in  a  kind  of  horrible  sus- 
pense.    Suspense!     Yes,  that's  the  word. 

Beyond  the  mud,  in  the  far  cool  distance  is  a 
green  untroubled  country.  The  Huns  live  there. 
That's  the  worst  of  doing  all  the  attacking;  we 
live  on  the  recent  battlefields  we  have  won. 
whereas  the  enemy  retreats  into  untouched  clean- 
ness.    One  can  see  church  steeples  peeping  above 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES  129 
woods,  chateaus  graining,  and  stretches  of  shin- 
ing river.  It  looks  innocent  and  kindly,  but 
from  the  depth  of  its  greenness  invisible  eyes 
peer  out.  Do  you  make  one  unwary  movement 
•   and  over  comes  a  flock  of  shells. 

At  night  from  out  this  swamp  of  vileness  a 
phantom  city  floats  up;  it  is  composed  of  the 
white  Very  lights  and  multi-coloured  flares  which 
the  Hun  employs  to  protect  his  front-line  from 
our  patrols.    For  brief  spells  No  Man's  Land 
becomes  brilliant  as  day.     Many  of  his  flares  are 
prearranged  signals,  meaning  that  his  artillery 
is  shooting  short  or  calling  for  an  S.O.S     The 
combination  of  lights  which  mean  these  things 
are  changed  with  great  frequency,  lest  we  should 
guess.    The  on-looker,  with  a  long  night  of  ob- 
serving before  him,  becomes  imaginative  and 
weaves  out  for  the  dancing  lights  a  kind  of  Shell- 
Hole  Nights'  Entertainment.    The  phantom  city 
over  there  is  London,  New  York,  Paris,  accord- 
ing to  his  fancy.     He's  going  out  to  dinner  with 
his  girl.    All  those  flares  arc  arc-lamps  along 
boulevards;   that  last  white  rocket  that  went 
flaming  across  the  sky,  was  the  faery  taxi  which 
IS  to  speed  him  on  his  happy  errand.    It  isn't 
so,  one  has  only  to  remember. 

We  were  in  the  Somme  for  several  months. 
The  mud  was  up  to  our  knees  almost  all  the  time. 


I 


130    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

Wc  were  perishingly  cold  and  very  rarely  dry. 
There  was  no  natural  cover.  When  we  went  up 
forward  to  observe,  we  would  stand  in  water  to 
our  knees  for  twenty- four  hours  rather  than  go 
into  the  dug-outs;  they  were  so  full  of  vermin 
and  battened  flies.  Wounded  and  strayed  men 
often  drowned  on  their  journey  back  from  the 
front-line.  Many  of  the  dead  never  got  buried ; 
lives  couldn't  be  risked  in  carrying  them  out. 
We  were  so  weary  that  the  sight  of  those  who 
rested  for  ever,  only  stirred  in  us  a  quiet  cr.vy. 
Our  emotions  were  too  exhausted  for  hatred  — 
they  usually  are,  unless  some  new  Hunnishness 
has  roused  them.  When  we're  having  a  bad 
time,  we  glance  across  No  Man's  Land  and  say, 
"  Poor  old  Fritzie,  he's  getting  the  worst  of  it." 
That  thought  helps. 

An  attack  is  a  relaxation  from  the  interminable 
monotony.  It  means  that  we  shall  exchange  the 
old  mud,  in  which  we  have  been  living,  for  new 
mud  which  may  be  better.  Months  o^  work  and 
preparation  have  led  up  to  it;  then  one  morning 
at  dawn,  in  an  intense  silence  we  wait  with  our 
eyes  glued  on  our  watches  for  the  exact  second 
which  is  zero  hour.  All  of  a  sudden  our  guns 
open  up,  joyously  as  a  peal  of  bells.  It's  like 
Judgment  Day.  A  wild  excitement  quickens  the 
heart.     Every  privation  was  worth  this  moment. 


Fsrarifonji 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     131 

You  wonder  where  you'll  be  by  night-fall  —  over 
there,  in  the  Hun  support  trenches,  or  in  a  green 
world  which  you  used  to  sing  about  on  Sundays. 
You  don't  much  care,  so  long  as  you've  completed 
your  job.  "  We're  well  away,"  you  laugh  to  the 
chap  next  you.     The  show  has  commenced. 

When  you  have  given  people  every  reason 
you  can  think  of  which  explains  the  spirit  of 
our  men,  they  still  shake  their  heads  in  a  be- 
wildered manner,  murmuring,  "I  don't  know 
how  you  stand  it."  I'm  going  to  make  one  last 
attempt  at  explanation. 

We  stick  it  out  by  believing  that  we're  in  the 
right —  to  believe  you're  in  the  right  makes  a  lot 
of  difference.  You  glance  across  No  Man's 
Land  and  say,  "Those  blighters  are  wrong;  I'm 
right."  If  you  believe  that  with  all  the  strength 
of  your  soul  and  mind,  you  can  stand  anything. 
To  allow  yourself  to  be  beaten  would  be  to  own 
that  you  weren't. 

To  still  hold  that  you're  right  in  the  face  of 
armed  assertions  from  the  Hun  that  you're 
wrong,  requires  pride  in  your  regiment,  your 
division,  your  corps  and,  most  of  all,  in  your  own 
integrity.  No  one  who  has  not  worn  a  uniform 
can  understand  what  pride  in  a  regiment  can  do 
for  a  man.  For  instance,  in  France  every  man 
wears  his  divisional  patch,  which  marks  him. 


/ 


■^1 


13^    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
He's  joUy  proud  of  hit  divition  and  wouldn't 
conKiouily  do  anything  to  let  it  down.    U  he 
heart  anything  laid  to  its  credit,  he  treasures  the 
«ying  up:  it's  as  if  he  himself  had  been  men- 
tioned  m  despatches.    It  ^  ait  rumoured  this  year 
that  the  night  before  an  atuck,  a  certain  Imperial 
General   caUed    his    battalion   commanders   to- 
gether.    When  they  were  assembled,  he  said, 
Gentlemen.  I  have  called  you  together  to  t  :U 
you  that  to-morrow  morning  you  will  be  con> 
fronted  by  one  of  the  most  difficult  tasks  that  has 
ever  been  allotted  to  you;  you   will  have  to 
measure  up  to  the  traditions  of  the  division  on  our 
left  — the  First  Canadian  Division,  which  is  in 
my  opinion  the  finest  fighting  division  in  France  " 
I  don't  know  whether  the  story  is  true  or  not. 
If  the  Imperial  General  didn't  say  it,  he  ought  to 
have.    But  because  I  belong  to  the  First  Cana- 
dian Division.  I  believe  the  report  true  and  set 
store  by  it.     Every  new  man  who  joins  our  di- 
vision hears  that  story.     He  feels  that  he.  too 
has  got  to  be  worthy  of  it.     When  he's  tempted 
to  ^  the  "  wind-up."  he  glances  down  at  the 
patch  on  his  arm.    It  means  as  much  to  him  as 
a  V.  C ;  so  he  steadies  his  nerves,  squares  his  jaws 
and  plays  the  man. 

There's  believing  you're  right.     There's  your 
sense  of  pride,  and  then  there's  something  else. 


P 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     133 

without  which  neither  of  the  other  two  would 
help  you.     It  seems  a  mad  thing  to  say  with  ref- 
erence to  fighting  men,  but  that  other  thing  which 
enables   you   to  meet   sacrifice   gladly   is   love. 
There's  a  song  we  sing  in  England,  a  great  fa- 
vourite which,  when  it  has  recounted  all  the  things 
we  need  to  make  us  good  and  happy,  tops  the 
list  with  these  final  requisites,    "  A  little  patience 
and  a  lot  of  love."     We  need  the  patience  —  that 
goes  without  saying:  but  it's  the  love  that  helps 
us  to  die  gladly  —  love  for  our  cause,  our  pals, 
our  family,  our  country.     Under  the  disguise  of 
duty  one  has  to  do  an  awful  lot  of  loving  at  the 
Front.     One  of  the  finest  examples  of  the  thing 
I'm  driving  at.  happened  comparatively  recently. 
In  a  recent  attack  the  Hun  set  to  work  to  knock 
out  our  artillery.     He  commenced  with  a  heavy 
shelling  of  our  batteries  —  this  lasted  for  some 
hours.     He  followed  it  up  by  clapping  down  on 
them  a  gas-barrage.     The  gunners'  only  chance 
of  protecting  themselves  from  the  deadly  fumes 
was  to  wear  their  gas-helmets.     All  of  a  sudden, 
just  as  the  gassing  of  our  batteries  was  at  its 
worst,  all  along  our  front-line  S.O.S.   rockets 
commenced   to  go  up.     Our  infantry,   if  they 
weren't  actually  being  attacked,  were  expecting  a 
heavy  Hun  counter-attack,  and  were  calling  on  us 
by  the  quickest  means  possible  to  help  them. 


134    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

Of  a  gun-detachment  there  are  two  men  who 
cannot  do  their  work  accurately  in  gas-helmetf 
—  one  of  these  it  the  layer  and  the  other  is  the 
fuse-setter.    H  the  infantry  were  to  be  saved, 
two  men  out  of  the  detachment  of  each  protect* 
ing   gun   must   sacrifice   themselves.     Instantly, 
without  waiting  for  orders,  the  fuse-setters  and 
layers    flung   aside    their    helmets.    Our   guns 
opened  up.    The  unmasked  men  lasted  about 
twenty  minutes;  when  they  had  been  dragged  out 
of  the  gun-pits  choking  or  in  convulsions,  two 
more  took  their  places  without  a  second's  hesita- 
tion.    This  went  on  for  upwards  of  two  hours. 
The  reason  given  by  the  gunners  for  their  splen- 
did, calculated  devotion  to  duty  was  that  they 
weren't  going  to  let  their  pals  in  the  trenches 
down.     You  may  call  their  heroism  devotion  to 
duty  or  anything  you  like;  the  motive  that  in- 
spired it  was  love. 

When  men,  having  done  their  "  bit "  get  safely 
home  from  the  Front  and  have  the  chance  to  live 
among  the  old  affections  and  enjoyments,  the 
memory  of  the  splendid  sharing  of  the  trenches 
calls  them  back.  That  memory  blots  out  all  the 
tragedy  and  squalor ;  they  think  of  their  willing 
comrades  in  sacrifice  and  cannot  rest. 

I  was  with  a  young  officer  who  was  probably 


Jl.    i. 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     135 

the  most  wounded  man  who  ever  came  out  of 
France  alive.  He  had  lain  for  months  in  hot- 
piul  between  sandbags,  never  allowed  to  move, 
he  was  so  fragile.  He  had  had  great  shell- 
wounds  in  his  legs  and  stomach ;  the  artery  be- 
hind his  left  ear  had  been  all  but  severed.  When 
he  was  at  last  well  enough  to  be  discharged,  the 
doctors  had  warned  him  never  to  play  golf  or 
polo,  or  to  take  any  violent  form  of  exercise 
lest  he  should  do  himself  a  damage.  He  had 
returned  to  Canada  for  a  rest  and  was  back  in 
London,  trying  to  get  sent  over  again  to  the 
Front. 

We  had  just  come  out  from  the  Alhambra. 

Whistles  were  being  blown  shrilly  for  taxis. 

London  theatre-crowds  were  slipping  cosily 
through  the  muffled  darkness  —  a  man  and  girl, 
always  a  man  and  a  girl.  They  walked  very 
closely ;  usually  the  girl  was  laughing.  Suddenly 
the  contrast  flashed  across  my  mind  between  this 
bubbling  joy  of  living  and  the  poignant  silence 
of  huddled  forms  beneath  the  same  starlight,  not 
a  hundred  miles  away  in  No  Man's  Land.  He 
must  have  been  seeing  the  same  vision  and 
making  the  same  contrast.  He  pulled  on  my 
arm.  "  I've  got  to  go  back." 
"  But  you've  done  your  *  bit,'  "  I  expostulated. 


136    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 
•;  H  yqu  do  go  bock  tnd  don't  get  hit.  you  may 
bum  •  blood  mtel  or  •omething.  if  what  th« 
doctors  told  you  it  true." 

He  halted  me  beneath  an  arc-light.  I  could 
J«e  the  earneitnew  in  his  face.  "  I  feel  about  it 
this  way,  he  said.  "  U  Im  out  there.  Im  just 
one  more.  A  lot  of  chaps  out  there  are  jolly 
tired ;  ,f  I  was  there.  I'd  be  able  to  give  some  chap 
a  rest. 

That  was  love;  for  a  man.  if  he  told  the  truth, 
would  say,  "  I  hate  the  Front."     Yet  most  of  us. 
If  you  ask  us.  "  Do  you  want  to  go  back  ?  "  would 
answer.     Yes.  as  fast  as  I  can."    Why?    Partly 
because  It's  difficult  to  go  back,  and  in  difficulty 
lies  a  challenge;  but  mostly  because  we  love  the 
chaps.     Not  any  particular  chap,  but  all  the  fel- 
lows  out  there  who  are  laughing  and  enduring. 
Last  time  I  met  the  most  wounded  man  who 
ever  came  out  of  France  alive,  it  was  mv  turn  to 
be  in  hospital.     He  came  to  visit  me  there,  and 
told  me  that  he'd  been  ail  through  the  Vimy 
racket  and  was  again  going  back. 

"But  how  did  you  manage  to  get  into  the  game 
again?  I  asked.  "I  thought  the  doctors 
wouldn't  pass  you." 

He  laughed  slily.  "  i  didn't  ask  the  doctors 
If  you  know  the  right  people,  these  things  can 
always  be  worked." 


ii 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     137 
More  Uun  haJf  of  the  bravery  at  the  Front  is 
due  to  our  love  of  the  folki  we  have  left  behind 
Were  proud  of  them;  we  want  to  give  them 
reaion  to  be  proud  of  us.    We  want  them  to 
•hare  our  ipirit.  and  we  dont  want  to  let  thrm 
down.    The  finest  reward  Ivc  had  since  I  be- 
came  a  soldier  was  when  my  father,  whod  come 
over  from  America  to  spend  my  ten  days'  leave 
with  me  m  London,  saw  me  oflf  on  my  journey 
back  to  France.     I  recalled  his  despair  when  I 
had  first  enlisted,  and  compared  it  with  what 
happened    now.     We    were    at    the    pier-gates 
where  we  had  to  part.     I  said  to  him,  "  l(  you' 
knew  that  I  was  going  to  die  in  the  next  month, 
would  you  rather  I  stayed  or  went?"    "Much 
rather  you  went."  he  answered.     Those  words 
made  me  feel  that  I  was  the  son  of  a  soldier 
even  if  he  did  wear  mufti.    One  would  have  to 
play  the  game  pretty  low  to  let  a  father  like  that 
down. 

When  you  come  to  consider  it,  a  quitter  is  al- 
ways a  selfish  man.  It's  selfishness  that  makes  a 
man  a  coward  or  a  deserter.  If  he's  in  a  danger- 
ous place  and  runs  away,  all  he's  doing  is  think- 
ing  of  himself. 

I've  been  supposed  to  be  talking  about  God  As 
we  bee  Him.     I  don't  know  whether  I  have 
As  a  matter  of  fact  if  you  had  asked  me.  when 


138    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

I  was  out  there,  whether  there  was  any  religion 
in  the  trenches,  I  should  have  replied,  "  Certainly 
not."     Now  that  I've  been  out  of  the  fighting  for 
a  while,  I  sec  that  there  is  religion  there;  a  re- 
ligion which  will  dominate  the  world  when  the 
war  is  ended  — the  religion  of  heroism.    It's  a 
religion  in  which  men  don't  pray  much.     With 
me,  before  I  went  to  the  Front,  prayer  was  a 
habit.     Out  there  I  lost  the  habit;  what  one  was 
doing  seemed  sufficient.     I.  got  the  feeling  that  I 
might  be  meeting  God  at  any  moment,  so  I  didn't 
iieed  to  be  worrying  Him  all  the  time,  hanging  on 
to  a  spiritual  telephone  and  feeling  slighted  if  He 
didn't  answer  me  directly  I  rang  Him  up.     If 
God  was  really  interested  in  me,  He  didn't  need 
constant  reminding.     When  He  had  a  world  to 
manage,  it  seemed  best  not  to  interrupt  Him  with 
frivolous  petitions,  but  to  put  my  prayers  into  my 
work.     That's  how  we  all  feel  out  there. 

God  as  we  see  Him !  I  couldn't  have  told  you 
how  I  saw  Him  before  I  went  to  France.  It's 
funny  — you  go  away  to  the  most  damnable  un- 
dertaking ever  invented,  and  you  come  back 
cleaner  in  spirit.  The  one  thing  that  redeems 
the  horror  is  that  it  does  make  a  man  momen- 
tarily big  enough,  to  be  in  sympathy  with  his 
Creator  —  he  gets  such  glimpses  of  Him  in  his 
fellows. 


f1 


.-  ,  fr^p 


/ 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     139 

There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  it  was 
rather  up  to  God  to  explain  Himself  to  the  crea- 
tures He  had  fashioned  —  since  then  I've  ac- 
quired the  point  of  view  of  a  soldier.     I've  learnt 
discipline  and  my  own  total  unimportance.     In 
the  Army  discipline  gets  possession  of  your  soul ; 
you  learn  to  suppress  yourself,  to  obey  implicitly, 
to  think  of  others  before  yourself.     You  learn 
to  jump  at  an  order,  to  forsake  your  own  con- 
venience at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night,  to  go 
forward  on  the  most  lonely  and  dangerous  er- 
rands without  complaining.     You  learn  to  feel 
that  there  is  only  one  thing  that  counts  in  life 
and  only  one  thing  you  can  make  out  of  it  —  the 
spirit  you  have  developed  in  encountering  its 
difficulties.     Your  body  is  nothing;  it  can  be 
smashed  in  a  minute.     How  frail  it  is  you  never 
realise  until  you  have  seen  men  smashed.     So 
you  learn  to  tolerate  the  body,  to  despise  Death 
and  to  place  all  your  reliance  on  courage  —  which 
when  it  is  found  at  its  best  is  the  power  to  endure 
for  the  sake  of  others. 

When  we  think  of  God,  we  think  of  Him  in 
just  about  the  same  way  that  a  Tommy  in  the 
front-line  thinks  of  Sir  Douglas  Haig.  Heaven 
is  a  kind  of  General  Headquarters.  All  that  the 
Tommy  in  the  front-line  knows  of  an  oflfensive 
is  that  orders  have  reached  him,  through  the 


\ 


i  ! 


I 


••"Hjii   ■■■■««r' 


•^"san-t.  'Ti."»  T-'v:-  V 


I 


140    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

dmA  out  of  hi.  trench  and  go  over  the  top  to 
meet  a  reajonable  ch«,ce  of  wounds  and  death. 
He  doesn .  say,  ••  i  don't  know  whether  I  will 
chmb  out.    I  never  saw  Sir  Douglas  Haie-, 

a  chat  with  h.m  first.  If  I  agree  with  him,  after 
that  I  may  go  over  the  top -and,  then  again.  I 
may  not.    We'll  see  about  it " 

Instead,  he  attributes  to  his  Coramander-in- 
Uiief  the  same  patriotism,  love  of  duty,  and 
courage  which  he  himself  tries  to  practice  He 
Wieves  *at  if  he  and  Sir  Doughs  Haig  were  to 
d»nge  places,  Sir  Douglas  Haig  would-be  q^e 

"oe^'.'t'zir"'"  "■■'"''"•  "•  "^^  -' 

tJ^^t  *! '!?''  '""y  "^°™"y  ''"<'  °<fic"  comes 
who^^'t  h  ^-'»  »  CommandeHn-Chief 
wftwn  he  has  never  seen,  but  whose  orders  he 
bhndly  carries  <mX.,yy 

The  religion  of  the  trenches  is  not  a  religion 
which  analyses  God  with  impertinent  spe^Ia- 
^oa  It  .sn  t  a  religion  which  takes  up  much  of 
«»  Hme.  It  s  a  religion  which  teaches  men  to 
cany  on  stoutly  and  to  say,  "  I've  tried  to  do 
my  bit  as  best  I  know  how.  I  guess  God  knows 
It    If  I    go  west  •  to^y.  He'll  remember  that 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES     141 

I  played  the  game.    So  1  guess  He'll  forget  about 
my  sms  and  Uke  me  to  Himself." 

That  is  the  simple  religion  of  the  trenches  as  I 
have  learnt  it  — a  religion  not  without  glory; 
to  carry  on  as  bravely  as  you  know  how.  and 
to  trust  God  without  worrying  Him. 


THE  END 


